


We Sang of Roses

by FeuillesMortes



Series: Of Roses Red and White [1]
Category: The White Princess (TV), The White Queen (TV), Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England - Thomas Penn
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Medium Burn (it's not really slow burn), Mutual Pining, OR IS IT, Read to find out!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11977353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeuillesMortes/pseuds/FeuillesMortes
Summary: Henry Tudor and Elizabeth of York are students at University of Westminster and share a flat in London. What started as a mere formality between the two, developed into something much more complicated. But if modern life doesn't stop for anything, will those two find the time?(This fic was supposed to be a one-shot, but let's just say I got carried away)





	1. Chapter 1

_September_

 

Henry didn’t think much about Elizabeth York. In fact, he didn’t think about her at all. She was always an afterthought, always a tangential object floating around the corner of his peripheral vision. Yes, she might be an afterthought, a footnote in some chapter he was trying to read — but _always_ , she was always there, highlighted in bright colours at the end of the page whenever he tried to flip it. A name written in a bright pink ink that left stains on his fingers whenever he touched the paper:  _Lizzie._ It was nothing short of annoying.

It was not that he  _wanted_ to notice her whenever she entered a room, it was simply  _hard not to_. The girl was weird (in a cute way, perhaps, but nevertheless weird). She was obnoxiously sweet in a way that made Henry all the more suspicious, and always seemed to wake up in bright spirits no matter the time or day of the week. Either she was unbelievably whimsical, in an Amélie Poulain sort of way (God, he hated whenever people brought up French cinema only to talk about that film)… or maybe it was all an act. It took Henry less than a week to figure her out. Lizzie _was_  indeed sweet, and odd, and cute, or whatever else. _And_ she was faking it too.

Peering from above his coffee mug, he watched her try to make idle chitchat in the kitchen whenever she went about her morning cuppa. She was too restless, too fidgety, too nervous to let conversation drop and allow undisturbed silence to reign in the room. Lizzie had tried hard to befriend her flatmates, and Henry could see reason in it. She had just found a flat after some good weeks of looking for one. London’s housing market was an overpriced hellhole and as she entered her second year at Westminster she was no longer allowed to stay at the student accommodation halls.

Lizzie was also the only girl in their flat. Between Henry’s silent books and Rodrigo’s football nights with his Iberian friends, he was fairly sure she felt out of place. She had told them, in one of her many chitchat moments, that she had four younger sisters that she missed dearly while away at uni. Rodrigo had perhaps taken pity on her and always reciprocated her attempts at conversation. Henry was less enthused about it — to her credit, she had noticed it, which had rendered her behaviour towards him considerably less warm compared to Rodrigo. It was not like Henry minded it. He was happy enough to discover she was not the stereotypical blonde after all, and had been positively surprised to find out the girl was more than just good looks. Shrewdness was something Henry could deal with.

Her untidiness, however, was something he could not. Henry had too many times already walked in the loo only to find the countertop overcome with makeup, bracelets and earrings galore. Wasn’t she supposed to take off that stuff in her room? Henry had never been there (and well, why would he?) but he knew, he just _knew_ , that her room was as messy as the bundle of clothes she let pile up before taking to the launderette.

Henry had tried the passive-aggressive approach by writing notes around the flat that read “pick me up”, “the dishes won’t do themselves”, "please throw me in the bin" and other such signs that were as annoying to write as to read them. Lizzie had behaved better the first three or four times that had happened, then he suspected she began to left stuff behind _on purpose_  — the purpose being, of course, to annoy him.

But how could he even accuse her? She would just bat her long eyelashes and look at him with those big round eyes and feign her most innocent voice. _Me? Trying to nag you?_ Of course, she would never admit to it. And Rodrigo wouldn’t take his side, anyways. She had bribed him with enough food already. Rodrigo was always inexplicably short of food and Lizzie had taken to cook extra portions for herself. Not that she had not tried to befriend Henry by offering him food too, only that he had politely declined her every time.

“You’ve got to be softer on the girl, Henry.” Rodrigo sighed from over his place on the sofa, trying to chastise him after his eleventh time complaining about her untidiness.

“Softer? It’s not like I’m scolding her or anything. I’m not even complaining to her, I’m complaining to you!”

“Yes, but you’re not exactly friendly with her either. Don’t you take pity on her?”

Pity was the reason Lizzie was living in their flat in the first place. She had seen their old advertise on campus about a small room available for rent. At the time, they weren’t in need of a flatmate anymore. Both his mother and Rodrigo’s parents had come together to compensate for the rent. But they had taken Lizzie in anyway. Her level of desperation had been palpable enough and they figured the extra money would allow them to accomplish long-held plans: hiring the services of a house cleaner once a week and finally buying a TV licence.

“Why would I pity her?” Henry scoffed. “I’ve seen her designer bags, her expensive makeup and whatnot. She’s clearly not that poor.”

“But she’s not well-off either. Don’t you know her father has recently passed?" His flatmate dropped his voice and took to whisper. "Her family is practically in a state of ruin. _Ruin_ , my friend! She told me her father was the one who provided for them all.”

Henry was fairly sure Rodrigo was exaggerating the picture, as he was often prone to do. Yet that was certainly some new piece of information. Henry had thought he had watched their new flatmate well enough to figure out her life. “I've... got to admit I didn’t know that.”

Switching the channels, his flatmate only shrugged. “Well, you might have if only you had given her a chance.”

There was something slightly off in the way he said that.

Henry got up, gathering the lecture notes he was working on and placing them on the table. “Alright. Fine.”

Rodrigo twisted his neck around to look at him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll prove to you I’m not antagonising the girl on purpose. In fact, I’m not antagonising her at all!”

His Spanish friend looked intrigued and amused. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t say that.”

Henry shot him a look that all but said _yet you've implied that_ and left the living room to go straight to Lizzie’s door. He knocked, and after some seconds, he heard a "come in" which prompted him to turn the doorknob. Looking into the small room, he found her working at her desk.

“Oh, Henry! It’s you! I thought— well, never mind what I thought.”

She had her hair tied up in a bun, but surprisingly, that was the only messy thing his eyes found upon entering her room. It was oddly tidy and cosy, fairy lights and art posters covering the walls. Some handicraft works were placed on her vanity. It all felt very... quaint, for lack of a better word.

“It’s supposed to be a flower.” Lizzie’s voice woke him from his musings. She left her place to stand beside him and pointed at the knitting work before them. “My sister Catherine made it for me this summer. She said it’s got five petals because it’s a rose.” 

“It’s, uhm, pretty.” Henry mumbled back, hands stuffed in his pockets. He was slightly embarrassed to be caught staring at her things. It was not a particularly familiar sensation for him.

Lizzie gave him a small smile in turn. “Thanks.”

The clock wreathed with vine leaves hanging on the wall ticked a few times before she said again. “Are you here because of your towel, the one I spilled tea on? I swear I’m taking it to the launderette next time.”

“What— towel? I’m mean, sorry?” Henry blinked.

“Oh... You didn’t know that. _Oops_.” She laughed nervously.  “My bad. I thought you came here because of that.”

Henry sighed, trying to count from one to ten. He pushed back the glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose. “No, I’m not here because of that.”

“So you're here for…?” Lizzie glanced up at him, her eyes cautious, almost like a repentant child expecting a scolding. Was he always scowling at her? If so, perhaps for the first time he felt genuinely bad about it.

“I came to say that I… I’ve noticed… that French 3 is one of your modules this term... and maybe... I could help you. I mean, if you need help to practice.”

Lizzie already knew about his time in France and the years he had studied there thanks to Rodrigo babbling about his life. A guy offering to help a girl with French was suspicious enough, one could say, but what was he supposed to help her with instead? Accounting? Corporate Finance? Lizzie was an English undergrad.

“Oh, thank you. That’s… uhm, very kind of you.” Henry was sure she meant _unexpected_ instead, but she was polite enough to hide her feelings at least. “But I’ve got a friend… who is French, you see. So… I guess I’ll just practice with him. As one does.”

“Oh, ok. Cool.” He nodded.  _Great_. He had made a fool of himself for nothing.

“He’s from uni, actually. You might know him, he's a third year student too. His name is Charles Valois.”

“Charles Valois? Yeah, I know him.” _The absolute_ _arse_. Always trying to stir shit up, always trying to be the centre of attention.“We’ve got some modules together, yeah.” To be fair, quite a lot of people also thought Charles was an arse. It was not just his biased opinion.

Lizzie sealed her lips together in a tight smile and nodded. “Fab.” Henry also nodded, unsure of what to say. She gestured him her desk chair while she sat on the bed. “Please, sit.” 

Henry took the chair and they awkwardly stared at each other for some seconds, the clock on the wall still ticking. Henry reckoned she had taken a shower not so long before their conversation. She was wearing simple clothes, her skin looked strangely rosy and glowy and a smell of jasmine filled the air. Or maybe that scent came from one of the several infusers scattered around her room.

“What's your prescription?”

“Sorry?” Strangely, as much as he was looking at her, he was still surprised to hear her voice. He should have seen that coming, not be caught by surprise when she spoke.

Lizzie pointed to his glasses. “What's your prescription?”

“Why… would you want to know that?”

She shrugged. “Just curious, I guess.” Henry only narrowed his eyes at her and she dropped her casual mask. “Oh my god, you’re so suspicious! Here, let me see.” She yanked off his glasses and tried them on her face.

"Hey!"

“Yep, just as I thought." She giggled. "You’re completely blind.”

“Come on! You know that’s simply not true.” 

She giggled again, and Henry took his glasses back. God, she certainly could be infuriating at times. He wiped the lenses on the fabric of his shirt before putting them back on.

Lizzie shrugged again, in a nonchalant way. “Alright, you’re not that blind... I mean, not blind  _yet_.”

Henry couldn’t help smiling back at her. A small, complicit smile. “Very reassuring, thank you.” 

They both chuckled, but their voices dropped again. Henry took a look at her desk to find she had been working on her lecture notes, highlighters and stickers and neatly organised Post-it notes placed on the corners. So it seemed Rodrigo was the only neglectful student in their flat after all.

“Nice work you’ve got there.”

Lizzie blinked, looking a tad too surprised by his compliment. “You think so?”

“Yes, it’s quite nice to see, uhm..." He searched for something to say. "... A proper use of highlighter pens. For instance.” Not that Henry himself used highlighters — they were unnecessarily bright and expensive, and they constantly needed to be replaced as they went dry. All of Henry’s annotations were either taken on his laptop or done in pencil and pen: neat and precise arrows and diagrams.

“Although..." He wrinkled his nose. Henry couldn't resist a good teasing. "I wouldn’t use that many colours. Can you even tell the orange from the pink at this point?”

She mockingly rolled her eyes. “Well, _I_ can. But again, I’m not the blind one here.”

Lizzie giggled again, and Henry hated to admit her laugh wasn't so annoying after all. “Alright, have a laugh. I was practically asking for it, wasn’t I?”

“I’m sorry, but yeah." She held his gaze for a second before looking down. "Anyways, you probably just like my notes because of your OCD."

"Excuse me." He feigned offence. "I don'thave OCD."

Henry had both his shirt sleeves rolled up his arms. Lizzie tugged at one sleeve, letting it fall back down. "Try not fix it, then I'll believe in you."

He took a deep breath and waited thirty seconds. One minute. He couldn't take it anymore. "Alright, alright. You win!" He rolled the sleeve back up again and Lizzie smirked at him. "But that _doesn't_ mean it's OCD. I just don't want to walk around looking like an utter idiot. I've got some standards, you know."

"Yeah, I know you do."

Her smile was surprisingly… fresh _,_ whatever that meant. It began as a thin soft line that spread across her cheeks to reveal pearl-like teeth. Henry gripped the armrests tight before getting up.

“Well, I should probably leave you to your notes now. I should work on mine too. I've got a quiz tomorrow.”

"Oh, alright." Henry couldn't tell if Lizzie looked sorry to see him go. Perhaps, but that wouldn't make much sense. She got up and opened the door for him. “Thanks for coming in. It was nice talking to you.”

“Yeah, that was… surprisingly nice, actually.” Her eyes narrowed at him and he knew he had botched up his attempt at being pleasant.

She forced a smile. “And by the way, don't worry. I’ll be returning your towel as soon as possible. I hope the stain goes away.” By her tone, though, she meant the exact opposite. “Bye.” She closed the door on his nose before Henry could say a word to fix his misstep.

It was at that moment that Rodrigo stepped into the corridor, rubbing his hands together. “So, Henry-boy! How was it?”

“It was alright, I suppose." Henry eyed him suspiciously. "Wait a minute, were you spying on us?”

Rodrigo’s face turned a darker shade of pink. “Obviously not!”

 _Unbelievable._ “Nice one, Rodrigo.”

Henry made his way to his room to the sound of Rodrigo’s poorest apologies. "I just want you two to get along, that’s all!"

Henry didn’t know why his flatmate cared so much about his friendship with Lizzie. It was not like it mattered that much to him. Aside from when they met around the flat or on campus, she didn't even cross his mind. Henry had not thought much about Lizzie up to that point and it was not a simple conversation that would change that fact.

 

* * *

 

_October_

 

"Remind me again why we’re here.”

His voice seemed to have come from far, far away. Lizzie almost didn’t hear it, such was her state of mind at that moment. The day was splendidly beautiful. The warm light of the late afternoon covered everything in a golden sunny haze, surprisingly making up for the chillness of the occasional wind blowing across Regent’s Park. Lizzie had her eyes closed, sunbeams playing behind her eyelids to produce the most extraordinary colours. Nothing could spoil that day, not even a mildly cranky Henry Tudor.

Lizzie and her flatmates had reached a comfortable level of intimacy, or so she believed. She had tried to appease them both (even Henry, with his OCD-like manners), and she liked to think her attempts had been successful after some weeks. She had found out that living with two guys was not as bad as she had thought it would be. There was no disgusting underwear lying around the flat. Actually, she was the messier of the three.

“It’s your fault, really.” She slowly opened her eyes to look at Henry, levelling him up squarely. “You wouldn’t stop nagging me about how I should not get the tube in my condition. You left me no option but to drag you along.”

It had been almost three weeks since Lizzie had sprained her ankle. The first week she hadn’t left the house not even to go to uni. She had been desperate to go outside, and the weather of the recent days certainly did not make it any easier to just lie around and wait for her ankle to recover.

“I was right, though." Henry shrugged. "There  _were_  loads of stairs to climb at that station.”

Henry just had a  _need_ to be right all the time, didn't he?

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Not that many. Besides, you should actually thank me for dragging you across the town. You said you’d never been to Regent’s Park! Blimey! You should really go out more and get to know the city better. You’re always stuck behind some book pile, your calculator and what-have-you. Oh, and not to mention your Excel spreadsheets! You should definitely take a break.”

Unlike Lizzie, Henry had not grown up in London, but somewhere else in Wales if she recalled it correctly. He had moved to the city only after he was admitted at the University of Westminster. Worse, Lizzie suspected that the years he had spent in France left him with an attitude all the more dismissive of the city,  _her city_. She had a special relationship with London.

Henry scoffed, but didn’t reply to her badly veiled insult. Yet deep down Lizzie knew her comment had been unkind. After all, it had been his commitment to his studies that earned his partial scholarship at Westminster. Also, she was keenly aware that taking a Business Management (and Finance) course was not at all the same thing as being a humanities undergrad such as herself, a girl studying English and Literature.

“Enfin.” Henry sighed, and Lizzie was only too glad for him to change the topic. “It’s _autumn_ and I don’t understand what we’re doing in a  _rose garden_  above all things.”

He was right, the blooming season had come and gone. Yet Queen Mary’s Gardens remained a charming place all year long. Just now by passing the gates, the yellow and coppery trees of the garden were a welcoming sight, their branches gently swaying in the breeze like a comforting embrace waiting to be accepted. After spending weeks locked away in her flat, the dried leaves that crunched beneath Lizzie’s feet were enough to send a soothing sensation to her core.

“You’ll see there are still some roses left. To quote Mulan:  _the flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all_.” Henry actually chuckled at that, and Lizzie caught herself smiling back, almost proud for making him laugh. 

“It’s so like you to quote Disney, Lizzie. I shouldn't be surprised.”

It was not often that she saw him smile. It was a shame though, for the look quite suited him. 

They walked some distance until they were completely surrounded by rose bushes from all sides. “And  _les voilà_!” She teased. Henry was the one to occasionally drop some French. “All flowers looking nice and fresh. Well, not so fresh, but incredibly nice still.”

He chuckled again and bent down to look at some of the roses. “If you told me there was a rose named  _Absolutely Fabulous_ I wouldn’t believe it.” He stood up again. “Wait a minute. We could actually hold a contest for the corniest rose name here, couldn’t we?”

Lizzie laughed. “Alright, let's do it! To my left I’ve got:  _Heart of Gold_ ,  _Blue for You, Song and Dance, Keep smiling_ aannd  _Especially_ _for You._ What have you got there?”

“Hmm, let me see..." He turned, the wind messing his hair strands. " _Silver Shadow, Free Spirit, Fragrant Delight_ and  _Remember Me_. I’ll take back what I said, mine are actually brilliant. God save the British enthusiasm for gardening!”

“I know, right! Now you see why I love this place.” 

She winked at him and Henry grinned back. A broad, genuine smile showing teeth. Yet, for all the pleasantness he was offering her that day, Lizzie quickly found out she could not look at him for too long. The golden light of the fading afternoon made his eyes look queerly lively and blue even from behind his glasses. She had to shake that unsettling feeling off. She shouldn't feel that way about anyone but her boyfriend Charles. Her fling actually, or whatever they were.

“Guess which rose is my favourite.” She blurted out, grasping at the first thing that came to her mind.

He took a look around him. “Hmm, I know it’s got to be a white one— come on, Lizzie, don’t look so shocked. It’s not like you haven’t come back from the market with white roses multiple times by now. I’ve seen them in the kitchen." He tapped his glasses and pulled a face. "I’m not blind yet, remember?”

It was surprising how that line had become some sort of inside joke between them. She certainly had never thought she would share inside jokes with Henry Tudor of all people.

“Well, I bet your favourite rose is a red one, innit?”

Henry had the look of a red rose person, if such thing even existed. He preferred coffee to tea, something that was unthinkable to Lizzie. She could picture him in one his illustrious French cafés like a proper snob. Lizzie looked around and pointed at a rose, luxuriously and unabashedly red.

“How about  _Red Abundance_ for you?” She gave him a tight-lipped, sarcastic smile.

Henry frowned and looked almost offended. “You take me for such a cliché? Nah, I’d rather have one not so… ominously red. I reckon a pinkish rose or— There!" He clapped his hands. " _Nostalgia_. A white centre with a cherry red edge. How do like that one?” 

“It’s alright, I suppose… Don’t look so proud of yourself. Are you going to start calling this one  _Tudor Rose_ or something?”

He was smirking, the bastard. “Well Lizzie, I think your favourite should be that pink rose over there.  _Free Spirit._ It suits you right.” Smirking, ever smirking. "Besides, you turn the same shade of pink when you blush."

Of course she blushed in response _. Is he flirting with me or just taking the piss?_ For the life of her, she could not tell. Not only was Henry Tudor the most unreadable person she had ever come across, his behaviour towards her so far had been erratic and tense, to say the least. At the end of the day, it was not their fault they had such contrasting personalities but had been thrown together in the same flat. 

“Goodness!” A look at the sun reminded her of the lateness of the hour. “We’ll have to leg it if we’re watching the sunset from Primrose.”

Henry clutched her arm to stop her. “You mean, the _hill_? We’re not running anywhere with your ankle like that.”

“Come on, Henry! I haven’t been there in ages! And I know you’ve never been there yourself. It’s _my_ ankle, okay? I decide what to do with it.” Her ankle was swollen and throbbing already just from walking around the park, but he didn’t need to know that.

Henry only pursed his lips. “Well, if you’re going to be so stubborn about it, then sure, why not.”

She grabbed him by the arm and they rushed off.

By the time they arrived at the top of the hill the sun was almost gone, but the colours in the sky were still incredibly stunning. It seemed the succession of orange to pink to violet would never cease to amaze Lizzie. The city skyline was outlined just perfectly, and birds came and went crossing the skies seeking their nests. It was everything she needed to forget about her ankle woes. Henry was so quiet beside her, so quiet, she could swear he wasn’t even there. Most of the times his usual mutism was irksome, but Lizzie was glad for it now. The only thing she regretted was not bringing a coat. She was trying to hide her hands inside her jumper when she heard:

“Do you want my jacket?”

“Sorry?” She instantly flipped her head to look at him. 

“You’re cold.” He said, rather matter-of-factly. “Do you want my jacket?”

“God, no! I mean, thank you, but no.” 

Had that come across as rude? It might have, but Lizzie could not think of anything more embarrassing at that moment than to have Henry lend her his jacket. She had been daft enough not to think of the wind before going out.  _The wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,_ asEliot called it. They shared a comfortable silence for a minute.

“It’s a pity we don’t get to see the sun actually setting here.” Henry muttered softly. At that moment the sky was almost fully dark, the last rays of light dying out like golden speckles falling from the skies.

“Yeah, it sets just behind us. We can see the moon rising, though.” 

“You should go see the sunset at Greenwich Park. It’s quite the view.”

“You’ve been to Greenwich?" She was so surprised, she couldn't help smiling. "Oh my, that’s far! You have to get the DLR for that. I’m impressed.” As a West Londoner born and bred, Lizzie hardly ever crossed the river. She rarely ventured further south than Borough Market or further east than Tower Hill.

Henry huffed softly and gave her a small smile, a surprisingly not smug one. “Just because you don’t see me going out it doesn’t mean I don’t.” He shrugged. “Just not with you.”

His words left her wondering if he had been going out with someone else that entire time. Well, not that it mattered, actually. It _should_ not matter to her, but suddenly Lizzie wished she had invited him for her outings before. His company was not completely unpleasant after all, just… mildly annoying. He had been considerate enough that day, actually — at that moment there were many people around them smoking, and Lizzie had seen Henry smoking before. Only Henry knew she couldn't abide cigarettes, and perhaps that was why he chose to refrain from them at that occasion.

“Hey ya!”

They instantly turned from their spot on the grass to look at the stranger standing behind them. The man gave them a slightly apologetic shrug before settling his eyes on Henry. “Sorry, mate. Do you know what time it closes?”

Lizzie was only too happy to chime in. “Around six or so. But don’t worry, they won’t be chasing you off the park.”

The man gave Henry a tight smile and a ' _Cheers, mate'_  before wandering off, leaving Lizzie utterly baffled.

“Did you hear that twat? _I_ answered his question and he thanked  _you_?” She complained, but Henry was gazing too far off to see her vexed. 

“It’s not that, Lizzie.”

“Then what?” Her voice came off slightly louder than she intended.

He turned his eyes back at her. Queerly limpid blue eyes. “He thought we were a couple.”

Lizzie felt her face burning. “Even so! I’d be your girlfriend, not your talking property. He should’ve thanked me.” She babbled on, and hoped that she might pass off her red cheeks as indignation rather than embarrassment. 

Henry only nodded. “Of course, Lizzie.” 

There was a seriousness in his voice, and Lizzie felt her embarrassment deepening. She could not believe she had dragged Henry Tudor to what could be considered one of the most cliché dates in London. Watching the sunset from Primrose Hill! What was she even thinking? All that was missing was a bottle of Prosecco and a blanket to warm their legs. 

“We should head back.” She started to gather her things as a way of dismissing the awkwardness. “It’s dark and there’s food at home.” 

“You mean, if Rodrigo hasn’t eaten it all by now.”

Henry was sporting his smirk again, and Lizzie felt almost relieved. Her face broke in a half-smile. “He wouldn’t dare!”

“I reckon he likes to be scolded, don’t you think? Probably some mum issues. I can picture Mrs De Puebla boxing his ears for being naughty.  _Rodrigo, you ate all the food again!_ ”

Lizzie could not help but bursting into laughter. Somehow it felt good sharing a laugh with him. Somehow, it felt right. Henry got back to his feet and offered a hand to help Lizzie stand and descend the hill. She looked at that hand: veined, long and lean, fingers slightly wider at the joints. It was splayed wide towards her, like a request. She took it. It seemed that just like that, easiness was restored between them. And then they could both go on with their lives and pretend their accidental date had never happened. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> This fic started as collaborative work alongside tumblr users @harritudur and @queenbessofyork, but we all got so excited about this AU we went separate ways. My story is set in present-time Britain (think post-Brexit London).
> 
> Mostly, this setting gave me a platform to apply some modern day challenges to this 15th century couple. Are gender dynamics significantly changed nowadays? How do we work out the sort of power imbalances that are inherent in any straight relationship? If Henry VII and Elizabeth of York were not restricted to 15th century formalities, does that mean their relationship would be much different? Those are the questions I wanted to work on this AU. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your support! You can contact me on tumblr at @feuillesmortes if you have any questions/comments and prefer that platform over this one.


	2. Chapter 2

_“You’re in trouble.”_

Echoing, echoing in his head. Henry was _not_ lost. He had been walking around, turning tunnel after tunnel, going up and down escalators, but he was _not_ lost. That was what he kept telling himself as he tried to find his way in what had turned out to be a frantic exploration of the London Underground. Henry had made the change from stations Monument to Bank several times already (or was it actually, two to three times? Or even less?). It didn’t matter. What did matter, however, was that he had spent the last ten minutes trying to change from the District to the Central line, and every minute longer he wasted was a minute closer to rush hour. Henry was no particular fan of the sweat gland that was the Central line during peak commuting times.

If not for that matter of urgency, Henry would not mind meandering about the tube. There was a sense of almost serenity, a condition of utter namelessness, of getting lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Crowds like rippling waves crashing against concrete, trains that came and went, feet landing and departing. Multitudes that moved like a single-minded hive, none particularly kind or courteous, but all _united in the strife which divided them_ : crossing the city, leaving home or work, getting to and fro. In those moments, a feeling of anonymity would pool down in his chest like a long held-out breath waiting to be released — a sense of _just you wait_. Henry Tudor, an unknown name to all and yet, a feeling would strike him light as day. He looked at all those different, infinite faces and thought: _Just wait and see_.

Henry followed the crowds like one swift fish. He did remember there was an specific hack to make that interchange between stations… what was that again? Henry fixed his glasses and tried to recall that particular detail as he got on yet another escalator. The Tube could be so frustrating at times. There were needless stations (Charing Cross and Embankment, for instance, or Leicester Square and Covent Garden — at less than a two minute walking distance from each other). And on the other hand, there he was blundering about like a fool! A simple citizen getting about town and trying to swap lines in one lengthy assault course. Was an efficient transport system too much to ask for? The fare prices more than covered up for one.

His eyes spot a new sign and the memory came to him: the trick to change from District to Central line was not to follow the right signs, but to go through the Northern line platforms instead. Henry quickly picked up his pace; he needed to make it through before those platforms got overcrowded at rush hour. He turned a corner at another tunnel and stopped abruptly. There, before his very eyes, another big city problem presented itself: the odds of chancing upon a person you’d rather not, amidst the chaos of 8 million people. Really, what were the chances of finding anyone if not for the sheer irony of fate?

He had recognised her from her hair, free golden locks cascading down her back. Lizzie walked some steps ahead, eyes glued to her mobile screen. Henry promptly adopted a much slower pace. He ran a hand through his hair, adjusted his jacket, his scarf, his satchel. He stopped at a corner where a musician sang with his guitar, gave him a £5 note, and waited as he watched from the corner of his eye Lizzie descend the steps to the platform. It was only after noticing that the musician had finished his song that he fully looked at the man again.

“You should ask her number.”

“I’m sorry?” Henry narrowed his eyes. He regarded the man so coldly, he was sure the guy must have been regretting his decision to speak.

The musician had an apologetic smile on his face, and shrugged. “The girl you were looking at. You should ask her number. Just go for it, mate."

 _The gall of some people, I swear_. “Not that this is any of your business, but I do happen to _have_ her number.”

Henry _did_ have it — it was only the natural thing, the reasonable thing when you were sharing a flat with someone. Not that they had exchanged any other sort of texts beyond ' _Can you open the door for me?'_ or ' _We’re running out of dishwasher'_  or ' _John the electrician is outside'_.

The busker adjusted the guitar strap across his shoulder, plucked some cords as if about to start another song. “Then..." He looked at the spot Lizzie had just vanished. "Whatever are you waiting for?”

 _Another lifetime perhaps_. In another time, another place, perhaps Henry would have thought about it — going after Lizzie, that was, though it felt absurd even to think about it — he would perhaps even consider the pros and cons of such a situation, level them out. At that moment, though, Henry wasn’t amused enough to reply to the musician. He took out another £5 note form his wallet and threw it at the open guitar case, contempt dripping from his fingers.

“Thank you for the song.” He said very briefly before heading out. He didn’t even know what song the man had been playing.

> “You’re in trouble.”
> 
> They were in the kitchen: Henry on his laptop, Rodrigo well on his third beer. The Spaniard had started out by promising he would make the finest sangrías for all his flatmates (as if they were much more than two, mind you), but as he tried to follow a Tastemade video step by step, his finest sangrías turned out to be more difficult to make than what he had previously thought. Rodrigo had eventually given up, and Sangría Wednesday had turned into Beer Wednesday.
> 
> Henry followed his flatmate’s gaze out the kitchen, right to where Lizzie and her boyfriend shared the sofa in the living room. Lizzie was showing him something on her phone, but he usually helped her with her coursework. How exactly Henry did not know how. If the guy was anything like he was in class, he was not exactly bright. But Henry never liked underestimating people — it was an advantage he did not appreciate to give out freely.
> 
> He went back to typing again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
> 
> “Oh, but I think you do.” The Spaniard brought down his beer with a clank and scooted closer to Henry. “Doesn’t it annoy you to see him here?”
> 
> “Why should I be annoyed? Are you annoyed?”
> 
> “What, me?” His flatmate blinked. “No, not me. _You_. _You_ , my friend.”
> 
> Henry chose his most detached voice, hoping to get that topic over with. “We never said she couldn't bring guests over. It would be rather unfair to stop her now."
> 
> "That's not what I said. I asked you whether you were annoyed."
> 
> "Why would I be annoyed?" Henry scoffed. "It’s none of my bloody business.”
> 
> It was not like Lizzie was indiscreet enough about her love life to make her flatmates uncomfortable. She didn’t engage in much PDA — and Henry knew how enthusiastic French people like her boyfriend could get about it. Whether she didn’t do it over shyness or a sense of privacy, Henry could not tell. And he should not.
> 
> As Henry didn’t hear a reply from his flatmate, he raised up his eyes again to find Rodrigo watching him over with the most peculiar expression. “Alright, then. You keep telling yourself that.” He grinned, a lazy smile touched by inebriation. “As if you haven’t been coming to the kitchen in hopes of seeing her everyday.”
> 
> “What?” Henry wasn't sure he had heard him correctly. The effect that alcohol had on some people! It was beyond absurd, really.
> 
> Rodrigo raised his palms as if in self-defence. “You’re in the kitchen right now, mate. Don’t deny it.”
> 
> “First off, I’m here because _you explicitly asked me to_. You were going to make us all _the finest sangrías_ , as you called them. I needed to finish an essay, so that’s why I brought my laptop.” Henry stuck out a second finger, stealing a glance at Lizzie and Charles to make sure they weren't listening. “Second of all, I have _not_ been, most definitely have _not_ been, working in the kitchen because of her. And I’ve told you why before. This is the best room to get natural light this time of the year.”
> 
> “Alright.” Rodrigo sipped his beer and clanked it again on the table. “And what about that bra I saw you holding the other day? The lacy one dangling from your hand?”
> 
> “Fucking hell, Rodrigo!” Henry looked back at Lizzie and Charles, then lowered his voice. “For fuck’s sake! Will you cut it out? I was _returning_ that… particular piece of undergarment. It was... sufficiently embarrassing as it was, so I don’t need you to remind me of that unfortunate event.”
> 
> “Sure.” His flatmate smiled sleazily. “ _So_ unfortunate.”
> 
> Henry still remembered the way Lizzie’s cheeks had flushed bright red as he handed her the piece he had found in the loo. It was only at that moment, as she looked extremely mortified, that he had realised what an absolute fucked up mistake he had done. Sometimes he couldn’t be trusted with simple human interactions, it seemed. _Of course_ she would get embarrassed. And Henry, well, he had done his best not to imagine her wearing that bra. He had tried very hard indeed, had tried very earnestly, but had ultimately failed. And most gloriously at that. He should be ashamed for letting his reptile, primitive brain overcome his evolved, rational mind so easily.
> 
> “Look, Rodrigo. Let’s get this one fact straight once and for all.” Henry straightened up in his chair, took his most serious voice. If he could, he would shake the drunkeness out of his flatmate by sheer force, only so he would stop talking nonsense. “I do not, and have never, cared about what Lizzie does or does not do. I’ve got no reason to. I’ve told you already that I’m moving out. So if you’ve got a problem with her, you should discuss it amongst yourselves.”
> 
> His flatmate’s face fell, as if he had not just listened to Henry's reasonable arguments. “Is that because of her boyfriend?”
> 
> _Mais qu’il est bien bête, alors!_ His mind couldn’t help but springing up some condescending thoughts.
> 
> “For the last time, listen!” Henry groaned in frustration. What was it about Lizzie that turned him into an unpleasant thing, dark and sharp? “I’ve known Lizzie since what, last summer? She moved in like four months ago. I’m not entitled to like or dislike her boyfriends. I’ve no part whatsoever at what she does with her life. And quite frankly, I’m not interested either.”
> 
> “So you’re really leaving?”
> 
> “I am.” His tone was decisive and final. Emphatic. He almost felt like he had just grown two inches by stating his decision.
> 
> Rodrigo didn't look pleased at all, but he nodded either way. “Abandoning the ship, I see. The end of an era.”
> 
> “Come on. You know I’ve always wanted my own place.” He took pity on his friend and patted him on the shoulder. “But I won’t be far out. My new flat is only two blocks away from here. You know you can always stop by.”
> 
> His flatmate smiled sadly. “Can I take Lizzie too?”
> 
> _I’d rather not_. Henry neither accepted nor refused, instead went with a third option. “I bet she’ll be angry.”
> 
> “Hell yes, Henry! That she will! You know she’ll have to start paying the same amount as you once you leave.” He sighed, that time more comically. “And goodbye house cleaner, goodbye cable tv.”
> 
> Henry was unmoved. “Oh, yes. What a great pity. Yet I’m sure you two will manage just fine.” Henry was immune to any and every attempt to move his heart by alluding to money. If he had learned anything in his life was that people always took themselves to be poorer (and handsomer) than they actually were.
> 
> And yet, still his eye wandered across the kitchen to the living room, to where Lizzie was snuggled up on the sofa with Charles. He loathed that guy, he had never been so sure of that before. No, Henry needed to leave. It was all too distracting for his final year. He was sure of all that and yet, he still needed to think of some way to break the news to her. If at all. After all, he could simply… move out. Cut away quickly and efficiently like a ripped off band-aid.

By the time Henry took the platform, he had hoped Lizzie would have already caught a train home. Ironically, as if the fates had chosen that particular day just to torment him, it was not to be the case. Henry lingered back, hoping that the crowd would block her view of him. That strategy turned out to work successfully to some extent — As a train arrived, many people rushed forwards to get on the carriage, but he stood rooted on his spot as they passed him by. Lizzie entered the train, and as the door alarms rang noisily, she suddenly turned and saw him on the platform.

The whole world seemed to stop, just for a second. She smiled and started to say something, but was soon cut off by the closing doors. From the other side of the screen Henry offered her an apologetic shrug. What could he do? He would get the next train. She smiled again, and mouthed a ' _See you at home'_. What a lovely thing to hear. Such simple, tender words. Almost too tender. Tender like that sunset in Primrose Hill.

He sighed, most wishfully. Such thoughts could take no place in his mind. He was moving out that very day.

 _You’re in trouble._ It echoed again and again in his mind. For the first time ever, Henry thought he might truly be.

 

* * *

 

The flat felt shadowed in gloom, as if it was now forever fated to be eerily empty since Henry had moved out. Maybe she wouldn't feel it so keenly if Rodrigo did not leave her on her own so often those days. He was rarely ever home now, ever since he started going out more often with his friends from Spain. Whether that was due to a lack of a male companion in the flat, Lizzie could only wonder. Maybe he had always been like that, but then his absence could go unnoticed with Henry almost always home. Those days Lizzie caught herself alone in the kitchen more often than not, simply staring at the coffee-stained mug Henry had left behind. The fact that they still hadn’t found a flatmate to replace him worried her greatly, but Rodrigo was oddly chill about their situation. Lizzie, on the other hand, did not know whether she would be able to afford rent next month. Things back home were not exactly going great, economically speaking. Her mother would put on a brave smile and tell her they were all doing just fine, but Lizzie knew _,_ she just _knew_ , it was not true.

One day she had casually asked Rodrigo if he knew Henry's new place. He arched an eyebrow and shot her a curious look.

"Why? Why do you want to know?"

She shrugged, trying to act casual. "Well, you know. One does get curious sometimes. Don't you ever?"

Rodrigo's eyes flashed out like a raptor that had just spotted its prey. “Something really happened between you two. I knew it.”

“No, it did _not_!” She fired back, perhaps a little too fast. Whatever had happened between them during those months, whatever had happened between them in Primrose Hill, Lizzie was certainly determined not to acknowledge that as  _something_.

Rodrigo threw his head back in laughter. “Come on, Lizzie! You two can’t deny it forever!”

“Stop talking rubbish, Rodrigo! You know why I asked you that question. Since Tudor moved out I don’t know how we’re paying rent next month. Aren’t you worried too? That prat should’ve at least got us a new flatmate.”

Her reply didn’t erase the stupid smile from his face. “Have you tried asking him? Did you know he’s practically our neighbour now?"

Her heart sank in her chest, fluttering rapidly like a caged bird. She felt something akin to anguish, some strange feeling that she could not tell from where it had come from. No, Lizzie most definitely did not know that Henry was living so close.

"By the way," Rodrigo kept saying, mischievous eyes matching his grin. "I think you should pay him a visit.”

"I won't!" She blurted out angrily, storming off to her room with her still too hot cup of tea. It spilled out everywhere. Leaf stains and honey drenched the carpet as she fled from the kitchen. It was odd how she was still affected by the whole situation. She felt... betrayed? No, that was an ever odder word to use. She had not been proud of the way she took the news of Henry moving out. The memory still vexed her somewhat.

But it had not come off as a surprise when she ran into Henry some days later. She was returning from her weekly grocery shopping, completely absorbed in her difficult task of juggling all of her bags, when she decided to take a shortcut that took her straight into his new road. She spotted him while he was taking out the bins. She slowed her pace, got to a pace so slow that not even a turtle could sustain it for long, and hoped that Henry wouldn't notice her if she kept to the other side of the pavement at least. It was to no avail. His eyes found her as soon as he turned her way. 

“Oh, Lizzie.” He stopped midway placing the bins on the ground. He looked as if unsure of what to do, a quizzical frown on his face.

“Hey there, Henry.” 

What else could she say? As she got nearer she offered him a polite, if not awkward, smile. He answered with one of his own. Good. It seemed they were going to be civil and cordial this time around.

Lizzie had been deeply hurt by the way Henry told her he was leaving. It was a ' _Hey, I'm leaving today. Best of luck to you!'_  as if his flatmates had meant nothing to him at all. Maybe she would have reacted better if he had given her some time to process that change in their situation. Lizzie dreaded sudden, unexpected news. They were never of the good kind — they were always accidents, heart attacks, terrorist bombs, death of loved ones. And again, Henry could have been more considerate, not detached and cold as he had showed himself to be. Who was he? Who was the real Henry Tudor?

Henry adjusted the glasses slipping down his nose in that peculiar way he usually did it. Lizzie caught herself staring, then quickly pointed to the block Henry had just exited to distract him from her complete inaptitude for acting normal. “Nice place you found there, huh?”

“Yeah, it was quite the catch actually." Henry started slowly, as if unused to speaking. If Lizzie didn't know better, she could swear he sounded apologetic. "Not that easy to find a place with affordable rent and at a reasonable commuting distance to uni. London’s housing market is pretty fucked up as it is.” 

“I know. I’ve been there myself." She took a step forward, as if that step would make her taller in his eyes. "It's not much easy to find a place, _or_ a flatmate for that matter. But of course you already know that.” Lizzie narrowed her eyes, feeling her grudge against him rising again. The nerve Henry had to talk about the housing market when he had just left them fending for themselves! 

Henry must have sensed her anger, for he hardened his eyes ever so slightly and a wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. There. He knew he had just caught her misstep at being perfectly civil. _You should never try sarcasm, Lizzie._  He had once said to her. _It does not look pretty on you_.

He gestured at her shopping bags on the ground. “You’re shopping at Lidl now? Whatever happened to Waitrose? Where else are you going to find your edible flowers and your quinoa salad?”

Lizzie crossed her arms and tilted her head. She just couldn’t believe how quickly he could make himself unpleasant. After all they had been through, she had thought they were at least friends. She had been wrong, Henry Tudor had no friends. He thought of no one but himself.

“Contrary to your belief, Tudor—" She addressed him by his last name as she usually did when she was cross. "—Contrary to your belief, I _know_ how to live on a budget. I've got nothing against cheap shops.”

He whistled. “Colour me impressed. Send my compliments to Charles."

 _To Charles?_ "I beg your pardon?"

Henry turned an innocent face at her, but something sharp and acid hid in his eyes. It was odd how she could read those signs so easily, how she could catch those little shifts. "I'm just saying his help is really paying off." It was his turn to tilt his head and blink. "Or is it not?”

The— the— the nerve! Of course the sad arse had to mention her boyfriend! Of course he would think that she was only improving or whatever because of his help. She knew he had never taken her seriously.

Before Lizzie could reply with any comeback of her own, though, the door behind Henry suddenly burst open and a woman rushed forward. Her dark locks floated freely as she descended the small steps leading to the road. “Harry, while I’m gone can you—” She stopped when she saw Lizzie standing next to him. “Oh, hello there. Who's this?” She had a friendly face, a sharp nose and some lovely dimples. 

Henry shifted uncomfortably in his place. “Lizzie, this is—”

“Maud Herbert.” The brunette chimed in, rather merrily. “His girlfriend.”

 _His what now?_ Lizzie could not help but let a small _oh_  escape her lips as she eyed the stranger. Henry having a girlfriend was a complete different concept she had never even considered before. Sudden and drastic changes, she hated those. Lizzie was sure she was looking at the girl with the utmost wariness, but Maud Herbert in turn seemed to have grown even friendlier towards her.

“So this is Lizzie! I’m so glad to finally meet you. Harry has talked so much about you.”

Lizzie felt utterly shocked yet again. What was it about Henry that day that seemed to shift the sands beneath her feet, set the world in another orbit, knock the wind out of her lungs?  She looked at Henry, who himself looked as if having an interesting conversation with his shoes. “Has he now?!”  _Funny Maud_ , _he’s never once talked about you._

“Oh, for sure. He told me you have this lovely sort of, I don’t know, DIY thing hanging above your door? I’d love to see it.” Lizzie listened on as if transported into a dream, still shaken at her core. Maud had a thick Welsh accent that sounded out of place with her general appearance.

Lizzie simply shrugged, dragging her trainers across the ground, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s nothing, really. You just need some old fairy lights. It's... not that hard to make.”

“Are you crafty, Lizzie?”

The question made her uneasy. “Not really… I mean, I do enjoy embroidering sometimes. It helps coping with stress.”

“Oh, you should definitely teach me some!” Maud laced an arm with Henry. “And you, mister, should invite your flatmates for a Sunday roast. What do you think? That would be pure, pure lush! I can cook the roast beef or whatever else and Lizzie gets the side dishes. Right, Lizzie? You know what? Don't. Just bring whatever you can.”

 _Oh God, please no._ Maud winked at her and Lizzie had not option but to offer her best fake smile in return. “Yeah, that’d be great. Absolutely fab!” Lizzie tried to sound as enthusiastic as humanly possible. God only knew from where she got the strength to fake it.

Henry — now so strangely quiet for someone who had been so sharp-tongued just some minutes before — was slow to reply. “I suppose I could... get it sorted out. I guess...”

Maud Herbert clapped her hands. “Tidy! Lizzie, talk to Rodrigo. From what Harry tells me I don’t think he will refuse.” She giggled and turned to Henry. “ _What it is,_ I’m heading back to Cardiff next week, so maybe this very Sunday? But you two will have to promise I won't miss my train the next day!”

Henry nodded absently and Maud planted a brief peck on his cheek before turning to leave and hugging Lizzie. “Again, so good to meet you, Lizzie!" What was it that made Maud talk as if she was speaking to a child? "But I have to rush now. I hope to see you again!”

She left, like a thunderstorm, like a heavy shower of rain, a tornado leaving havoc behind it. Some seconds passed on silently after her departure, yet Henry and Lizzie both looked dumbfounded still. It seemed none could find the words to match what had just happened.

Lizzie cleared her throat. If she was the one to stop that nonsense, so be it.  “So… I see you've moved out to find yourself a proper love nest. That's nice and alright, I suppose. Very cute, actually."

Again, she was dancing dangerously close to the flames. What was it between the two that made them bring out the absolute worst in each other?  _Don't try sarcasm at me, Lizzie._ It played again in her head. _You just won't win."_

The look Henry shot her was downright chilling. “You bloody well know why I moved out.”

Lizzie had expected a caustic reply, something ironic and clever to outwit her, not some cryptic message wrapped on a tone of confession. It was all too much. She turned to pick up her carrier bags. “Prepare yourself for my Yorkshire puddings.” Lizzie gave him the best winning smile she could muster. “They’re the best you’ll ever have.” Then she simply turned away, left without saying goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic Charles Valois is Charles VIII of France. Elizabeth of York was betrothed to him while he was still dauphin of France, but the betrothal was called off by the king of France, his father, Louis XI in 1482. For the sake of drama(!) he is depicted here as one of Lizzie's boyfriends (or was he really ever her boyfriend? hmm).
> 
> The whole betrothal ordeal was sketchy during the time -- it seems to me that both the king of France and the king of England (Edward IV) regarded that betrothal more like a leverage against war (counterpoint: but wasn't it what royal marriages were all about back then?). We do know, however, that Elizabeth of York received appropriate instruction and was referred to and treated with all the deference pertained to the future queen of France.


	3. Chapter 3

Lizzie knew it was a terrible idea the moment she had accepted their invitation. It was an instant regret: had she waited a second or two before accepting it, she might have been able to come up with an excuse for not attending that Sunday roast. Visiting Henry's new place had never figured in any of the many unlikely scenarios that often populated her mind. Surely, she had always had an overactive imagination, but winning the lottery or moving to a different country at that time felt like a more likely possibility to happen.

Still, she had accepted Maud's invitation — truth be told, more for the sake of her pride than anything else. That white, hot, haughty Yorkist pride that ran freely in her veins from time to time. One could say it was almost a centuries-old family heirloom, passed down to her by her father. Clinging to that sense of righteousness almost felt like a piece of him was still with her. If Lizzie closed her eyes long enough she could still see him: a tall head towering above all others, a wide grin, his booming and resonating laughter matching the twinkle of his eyes.

_He used to call me his dearest flower._

Lizzie shook her head, trying to dissipate the feeling. It never did her any good to dwell on such thoughts. Especially now as she waited outside Henry's door, especially now that she had to look (and act) her best. She was carrying a tray with her most delicious Yorkshire puddings. They were covered with a towel so the heat wouldn’t dissipate and turn them all mushy and sad. By her side, Rodrigo hold two bottles of wine. Cheap wine, Lizzie reckoned, but she would give him the benefit of doubt. She would always love him for trying at least. They pressed the button for Henry's flat and waited a couple of seconds before a female voice told them she was coming down.

Rodrigo shuffled his feet and turned to ask Lizzie. "That was Maud, right? The friend who's visiting. I've met her before."

"Yes. Henry's girlfriend." Her reply came more stiffly than she had intended. 

"Girlfriend but like,  _girlfriend_?"

Lizzie simply shrugged. "That's what she said."

The look of disbelief on Rodrigo's face was priceless. Lizzie wished she could frame it. "Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Are you really that surprised?” She scoffed. “Henry never tells us anything of his private life, does he?”

Her flatmate looked almost offended. “Maybe not to you, missy. Me and Henry are best mates.”

“Or  _are_  you?” Lizzie couldn’t help teasing poor and clueless Rodrigo, but it all quickly took a serious turn. “If you’re such good friends, then why did he run off to get his own flat?” 

She had hoped she could keep the bitterness out of her voice, but Rodrigo’s face instantly fell at that. “I don’t hold it against him. Trust me, he had his reasons.”

His words pricked her curiosity, but she still tried to act casually. She took her time looking at a car passing by, picking at her clothes, doing anything and nothing at all. “Which were, exactly?”

He shook his head. “It’s not my place to tell you.”

God, it was getting worse by the minute. She _had_ to know what those reasons were. “Rodrigo, please. Just... tell me. Why did Henry leave?” She shot him her best supplicant look, complete with big doe eyes and a pout to boot. She had learned it from her mother.  _No man can resist a woman in distress_ , she had once said. The look had never failed Lizzie before.

Her flatmate hesitated, as men often did after receiving such attention, but he averted his gaze. “I can’t. Ask him yourself. Or rather, you can ask your boyfriend Charles instead.”

_What does Charles have to do with anything?_

“You don’t mean—”

The door opening up on them interrupted their conversation.

"Oh hey, you two!"

Maud enthusiastically greeted them, smiling at their sight. She kissed them both on their cheeks. “It’s so nice of you to come! Please, do come up. Henry is super nervous about this get-together, but shhhh!” She giggled, her voice sweet and high-pitched. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

She charmingly winked at them as if she were telling them a great secret. Maud had a warm and familiar aura to her, something that should let Lizzie at ease but that actually had the opposite effect on her. Her blatant overtures at friendship made Lizzie wary for some reason that she could not exactly pinpoint. Still, they turned on their heels and followed Henry's girlfriend into the building.

Henry’s new place was a studio flat, small but nicely decorated. It looked every inch like the place of a bachelor — that was the first thing that came to Lizzie's mind, strangely. She didn't see any feminine touches that might indicate there were frequent visits of a woman to the place: no flower vases or plant pots, no framed pictures of the two together hanging on the walls. 

Henry himself soon came from the kitchen to receive them, an apron thrown over his shoulder. He greeted Rodrigo with a smile and a handshake, but only nodded at Lizzie. That made her vexed at first, then angry somehow. Just a month ago they weren't exactly friends, but they were closer than what a simple nod could grant her. The boys tasked themselves with setting up the table and Lizzie and Maud took the kitchen. 

“So, Lizzie! Are you ready for the ultimate Sunday roast?” Maud rubbed her hands together and beckoned Lizzie to the oven. She opened it up and took out the first tray. “Look, we’ve got everything! Vegs, including a green one as you can see, all honey roasted and sautéed. Also mixed with herbs of course, ‘cause we’re not animals.” 

She took out another tray and placed it on the countertop. “Plus, we’ve got perfect golden potatoes! If you do want to know, I roasted the spuds in olive oil and a tablespoon of butter. Don't be shy to take notes, you're not going to regret this. Aaand—”

Next to the trays, she removed a towel covering up a dish. “—Aand a perfect roast beef! Did you know, Harry actually cooked this one. I said we should have pork or lamb instead. You know, just to mix it up a bit. No need to go all traditional, right? We’re not old people yet, I said. But he said it would not be, I quote, the correct way to eat your lovely Yorkshire puddings. So there we have it! A perfect roast beef!”

Lizzie did remember jokingly telling Henry that eating Yorkshires with anything other than beef was like drinking red wine with fish, an analogy that certainly must have sounded like a sacrilege to his ears. 

“That was considerate of him, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, yeah? Yes... That was alright, I guess... Just— let’s make the gravy so we can all eat, shall we?”

She had hoped that committing to cooking would cease Maud’s endless chattering, but it did not. In fact, as Lizzie poured a splash of wine to the roasting tin on the hob, Maud still went on. 

“I’m sure you’ll find the beef delicious. Harry’s got some cooking skills. He’s quite resourceful like that.”

Was she... bragging about her boyfriend? Lizzie had her back to Maud, so at least she could roll her eyes freely. “Yes, I know.”

“It must be the years he’s spent in France. We learn to be independent, I reckon, when we start living by ourselves at such a young age.”

“Almost too independent, no?”

She heard Maud stopping whatever it was that she was doing. “Do you think so?”

Lizzie turned around with an innocent face. “Oh, I just reckon that it must be so much more comfortable for him. You know, everyone says that living alone gets so addictive. One can never go back. And well, he did get his own place, so...” She punctuated her statement with a shrug.

Maud stopped for a moment and considered her face. “That must have been hard for you. For you and Rodrigo, that is.”

Lizzie forced a smile and shook her head. She took back her wooden spoon and resumed her stirring. “Don’t mind me. We’re happy for Henry, truly.”

“I’m sure you are.” Maud’s eyes on her were still unwavering, but she softened up with a smile. “Now come on, luv. Let’s make that gravy.”

Lizzie sighed, almost relieved for the change of topic.

But lunch had plenty of its share of awkward moments too. Things were running surprisingly smoothly up to that point, but when the time to discuss their Christmas plans arrived, things got a bit out of hand.

“I heard the Christmas lights at Oxford Street got switched on last week. And it’s only November yet! How exciting is that?” Maud casually commented, serving dessert. “You’ve got such a beautiful season here in London. Truly, I get a tad envious, you see."

For a moment Lizzie forgot she was there just out of politeness. She was not going to talk much, she had promised herself, she was not going to make herself agreeable. No, not that time. No more offering her friendship to people who didn't appreciate it. She had turned up to that roast only so she could show Henry how much of a bigger person she was, to show him how well she was faring without him. But when Christmas was mentioned, why, she just couldn’t hold herself back from the conversation.

“It’s really the best time of the year, innit! You should go see the lights at Regent Street too. They've got angels, silver bells, hollies, everything! Oh, and check out Carnaby Street! And Hyde Park! You know what? Just— just go around the city. Everywhere is _magnificent_ right now.”

She heard chuckling, and she rose her eyes to see Henry donning a thin smile while picking at his food. He must have known about her love for Christmas by then. Before he had moved out, Lizzie had already stamped a whole bunch of Christmas stickers on her bedroom’s door.

Maud was smiling too. “You seem really excited about Christmas, Lizzie. But do you know who also loves Christmas?” She elbowed Henry. “Our dear old chap here.”

“What?” Henry and Lizzie asked at the same time, and it was Rodrigo’s turn to laugh. 

No, Lizzie definitely didn’t know that. She had always thought Henry the Grinch type. No, not the Grinch. Rather, a Scrooge miserly counting his coins and telling people there was no point in celebrating the holiday.

“Oh, yes! Has he never told you?” Her eyes seemed to shine with mischief. “He loves those old jazzy songs. Don't you, Harry? You know, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra. I’m sure you like those too. See," Maud smiled, seemingly very satisfied with herself. "Now you’ve got another thing to bond over.”

Lizzie’s mind started spinning. She had thought Maud had been bragging about Henry that whole time, but was she actually... was she actually... hitting on her... for him? No, no it couldn’t be. That didn’t make any sense. Silly of her to think that.

Henry cleared his throat. “They’re called classics for a reason. And I'm sure everyone loves them, not just me. Or Lizzie.” He shot her a quick glance, but immediately turned back to his lemon custard. Lizzie couldn’t tell whether he was vexed or not.

Maud was insistent. “But both of you—”

“Well, I like Christmas too!” Rodrigo chimed in. God bless him for trying to alleviate the awkwardness. “I’ll be flying back to Madrid to see my family over the holidays. But Christmas is not just about decorations or songs, is it?" He comically paused to lend some gravitas to his speech. “It’s about family and unity. About getting together.”

Maud raised her glass of wine. “We should make a toast. To unity!”

All glasses clinked together. “To unity!” Maud and Rodrigo enthusiastically repeated. Lizzie and Henry could only do so much as look at each other.

“And new beginnings!” Maud gestured vaguely at Henry’s place and the glasses clinked together again. “And also... to getting together!” She waggled her eyebrows and winked at no one specifically, perhaps at them all.

 

* * *

 

“I’m going to kill you.”

Henry muttered under his breath, all humour gone from his voice. His hand reached into his pocket to answer his buzzing phone. A new text from Rodrigo reminded Henry of the last two he had left unanswered since the previous day. 

> **Rodrigo**
> 
> Wtf Tudor?   
>  Since WHEN is Maud your gilfriend? 

Henry unlocked his screen to read the new text.  

> **Rodrigo**
> 
> Well are you going to fix this mess or not?  _  
> _

Rodrigo was one of the few people in London to whom Henry had introduced Maud. Henry had presented his childhood friend on the occasion of her first visit to their flat, a time when Lizzie wasn’t living with them yet. Henry sighed and read the text aloud to Maud, but she only laughed heartily at him. She took a great joy, it seemed, to see him so cross.

“You should be thanking me, you old sod!”

They were walking fast, Henry helping his friend with her suitcase as they entered Euston station. Maud was about to get her train back to Cardiff after spending a week visiting. She had promised him she would drop by his new place during her leave from work and not only had she kept her promise, during that time she had somehow managed to fuck up his entire life.

“Excuse me, but I don’t exactly see how you've helped me. At all, actually.”

His complain fell on deaf ears. Maud wasn’t paying attention to him. She was too entranced checking her train tickets to listen, or at least she pretended to be so. She had always been like that, stubborn and mischievous. That was something they had in common, as her mother used to say all the time. Once they found the right platform for her train, Henry chose to bring up the subject again. 

“That was some sort of retribution, wasn't it? For that time I laughed at you falling down a well.”

Her eyes came alive with recognition, but she still managed to feign an innocent smile to hide her excitement. “Oh, what an interesting turn of events... So you  _do_ happen to remember that lovely episode after all. Not gonna lie to you, I _loves_  it when I get to see you embarrassed. It’s something that sadly, sadly doesn’t happen that often. A great pity, really.”

Henry Tudor and Maud Herbert had been friends since he couldn’t remember. As his mother built her career as an important businesswoman in the entrepreneurial scene of the 90s, Henry was often allowed to stay at Maud’s house. Her mother was a teacher at the school they had studied together back in Wales, and Henry had spent many times working on school projects under her supervision. In fact, Henry had spent so much time in her house that he considered the Herberts like a second family. Once her father had jokingly asked him if he would marry his daughter when they grew up, but Maud and Henry could only laugh at the idea. Maud was a sister to him, the sibling Henry had never had.

“For fuck’s sake, Maud!” Henry sighed heavily. “We were ten! Will you ever let it go?” He remembered quite well he had to buy her two lollies as an apology at that time. Henry never forgot a thing, especially when it came down to money. That was both a blessing and a curse.

Maud only raised an eyebrow at him. “Woah there, butt. Don’t be tamping." She adopted a soothing tone as if she were talking to a child, then straightened up and adopted a more serious tone. "I did that because I genuinely wanted to help you, okay?”

Henry crossed his arms. “Explain to me how faking you were my _girlfriend_ would help anything." _Not_ that he needed any help, in fact. His situation was quite perfect as it was. 

Maud simply shrugged. “I went with my gut, okay? I had to test the waters and see how she felt about you. Trust me, that was some quality research I did.”

Henry rolled his eyes, which made Maud spit away her chewing gum and take a serious stance against him. They were both smokers trying to quit, but while Maud had taken to nicotine gums as if her very life depended on it, Henry had only cut down on the numbers of cigarettes he had per day. He would eventually stop it, he told himself that often. Setting his mind on something and achieving it: that was his default mode. By then, he only had a puff or two whenever he was feeling particularly stressed. Yes, he could definitely quit whenever he chose to.

Maud confronted him with a inquisitively raised eyebrow. “Harry, look. Do you like this girl or not?”

It was not the first time he was confronted with the idea. Lately Henry had been asking himself the very same question. He often caught himself thinking of Lizzie for the most absurd of reasons. Once he passed by a shop and saw a specific China piece she had always wanted to buy for her tea set. He hated that he knew that. He hated how often he thought about the way she tucked her hair behind her ears — demurely, absentmindedly —  or how the scent of her perfume always filled the hall before she headed out for uni. 

Other things disturbed him for the most absurd of reasons: for instance, Lizzie had a birthmark on the nape of her neck. Henry had seen it several times. In fact, he had seen it every time her hair was tied in a bun. Such a simple fact and yet, once he had caught himself wondering if that spot was ticklish — he could nuzzle it, run a finger along her skin to find out. That image had come too vividly to his mind. Yes, that unbidden thought had startled him greatly. Maybe he was truly turning mad, losing all his sense of logic. The fact that Lizzie was ridiculously good-looking definitely didn't help a thing. He was only a man, after all.

“I don’t know." Henry shrugged, adopting a casual voice. "I guess I’m intrigued by her.”

Maud made a face. “Come on, Harry! I’m not being funny, you _fancy_ her. I’d be shocked if you didn’t 'cause that girl is beyond fit. Totally lush, actually. Imagine waking up to that everyday! No wonder you had to leave." 

Maud Herbert had been in a serious relationship with Percy for the past five years at least, and it was always easy for Henry to forget that his friend was also into girls. When Henry came back from France Maud had a new haircut, a fierce dragon tattoo and was openly bi. As much as his time in France had been a life-changing experience, a part of Henry would always regret he wasn’t around to see his childhood friends coming into their own.

At that moment Henry tried to summon his most unimpressed look. “First of all, I didn't leave because of her. Second of all, you don’t know Lizzie. She’s as much annoying as she's pretty.”

Maud didn’t give him a chance to try. “I know the princess-sort-of-girl is not usually your type, but just think! Think for a minute! There must be something more about her. Don’t! Don't deny it now. Deep down, you _knows_ it, bruv. Also, consider that—”

Maud kept talking and talking. Sometimes she possessed an unrelenting way of stating her opinions, pushing argument after argument, and making it that much harder for Henry to disagree with her on anything. She kept babbling about Lizzie, kept babbling about her theories. Henry just wanted her to stop talking, for God’s sake!

“Alright, alright!" He gave up. Victory was Maud's for all he cared. "I might fancy Lizzie! So what?” 

Did he, though? Why admitting that felt like exposing a weakness?

“ _So what?_ So _plenty_ , my friend! I’m not letting you sleep on this one.”

Henry was quick to point out the fact that, first of all, Lizzie had a boyfriend. It was a sensible point— an important one even, although that simple excuse by then sounded weak even to his own ears. Only thinking of Charles was enough for Henry to feel his blood starting to boil. 

“You sad arse! You'll need to find another excuse!" Maud kept going at it, but her gaze suddenly turned soft and she squeezed his arm. "Harry, listen. I’m sure Lizzie's got feelings for you. She might not know it herself, but she does. I saw the way she looks at you.”

Henry could only doubt the concept very keenly.  _Surely Lizzie has feelings for me. Feelings_ _of annoyance and frustration, that is._  As Maud spoke on, Henry narrowed his eyes. “What exactly are you suggesting, Maud the matchmaker genius?

She grinned and mischief shone once again in her eyes. “Why, a balcony scene, of course! I won’t accept anything less than that."

She turned to watch her train arriving at the platform, even though her piece of advice had been rather cryptic, to say the least. "Now come, give me a hug 'cause I’ve got to go. Off I go to our lovely Wales! By the way, when will you start visiting? Mum is always asking about you. You don't care about us anymore now that you're living in your fancy, fancy London."

Henry thought of kind Mrs Herbet, the first teacher he had ever had. “Yeah, I’m so sorry, Maud. Tell her I’ll be visiting my uncle during the holidays and then I might drop by.”

“I won’t be making any promises for you, Harry. You can tell her that yourself. Hand me your phone so I can type her number.” 

Henry, who had been holding his mobile the entire time of their conversation, instinctively clutched it hard at her suggestion. Maud looked innocent enough, he could grant her that much. But Henry had always been too distrustful to simply... let people have a chance to go through his phone. He took a second glance at his friend to decide whether she could be trusted. Instead, he was promptly rushed by Maud pointing at her watch. He grudgingly handed her his phone, but only too soon came to regret that decision. Maud looked exceedingly satisfied with herself for some odd reason.

Henry had an itchy suspicion. He drew out his voice in a flat tone. Slowly, almost regretting to speak. “Maud, what are you doing?” 

“Relax, mate.” She grinned. “I’ve just sent Lizzie a text.”

“A WHAT!?” He snatched back his phone. Hélas! It was too late. He blankly stared at the text on his screen for a few seconds, disbelief overwhelming his voice. He read it aloud.“ _I need to talk to you?"_  He turned back to his friend. _"_ Seriously, Maud? What the everloving fuck?"

She curtsied. “My job here is done.”

Henry could only glare at her for a full minute, fuming as he was, before he could address her again. “Why? Why do I even trust you with my phone in the first place?" He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Really, I should've known better. Off with you now! Get lost!”

Maud grabbed her things and headed out to the platform before turning to wave him goodbye. “You still owe me a fiver, Harry. But don't worry, next time you can buy me a pint as a thank-you.”

Henry scoffed, but waved back anyways. “Not happening! Don’t forget I’m a heartless miser.”

He heard her giggling softening down as she left. Watching Maud getting aboard her train, Henry got his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it again. A new resolve had settled on his mind. He typed a text to Rodrigo: 

> **Henry**
> 
> Yes. I’m fixing this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: It has been speculated that Maud Herbert, daughter of William Herbert and Anne Devereux, was once betrothed to Henry VII. They did in fact grow up together during the years that Henry Tudor served as a ward to Lord Herbert, a Yorkitst that replaced Jasper Tudor as Earl of Pembroke after Edward IV's victory at the Battle of Towton. 
> 
> Maud later married Henry Percy, 4th Earl of Northumberland. He was the one that led a major force of Richard III's army at the Battle of Bosworth, but that ultimately failed to commit his troops. He was later pardoned by Henry VII.
> 
> In this fic, Maud Herbert is Henry's childhood friend. For the purpose of drama(!), we played upon those rumours and fleshed out her character a little bit. I figured that a childhood friend would be the best one to know Henry Tudor (at that moment), as closed-off and enigmatic as Henry was. And we all need a little push from time to time, don't we? It was fun introducing someone from Henry's past in Wales!


	4. Chapter 4

It was going to be a beautiful night, the best of nights. She felt it in her bones, smelled it in the air. She could not remember a time when the stars had shone so bright, or any other night when the moon had looked so big, so close to earth. There was a soft jazz song playing in her room: if she closed her eyes just long enough she could pretend she was under Parisian skies singing _La Vie en Rose_.

 _A thousand dreams within me softly burn_.

It was really the most wonderful time of the year. How could it not be? That evening they would go to the Royal Opera House and see The Nutcracker. She would sit back on her cushioned seat and let the steps and turns of the dancers take her to a distant land of wonders. Oh, what a magical, splendid evening she was about to have! Maybe after the show they could dine at that charming, fancy Indian restaurant on Floral Street, the one that she had always wanted to go. God knew she had hinted the suggestion to Charles plenty of times already.

Lizzie looked at the mirror and adjusted her earrings, freshwater pearls. She had carefully crafted her makeup that evening, had spent hours trying to choose which dress to wear. She had decided a simple black dress could not go wrong. It had a low-cut neckline, offering a rather generous view of her bosom (she reckoned her boyfriend would be more than glad for it, wouldn’t he? What man wouldn't be?). She only wished Charles would reciprocate the effort. Sometimes.... sometimes talking to him felt like talking to a wall. He would nod his head this way and that other way and yet, not much later he would ask her something for what she had told him the answer already.

What was taking him so long then? Lizzie opened her window to peer outside, the chilly air of a December night invading her room. No, she was being unfair. It was not his fault that she talked so much, it was not his fault that she was such an oversharer. It was just that… she felt so shy around people, she always felt the need to talk as to fill the awkwardness of the lingering silence. And when she found someone she could open up to, why, it seemed like she would never ran out of words for the so many things she wished to say. She was _in love with words_ , as Anne Sexton once wrote, those  _doves falling out of the ceiling._

The fact that she was going home for the holidays filled her heart with intense joy. She would snuggle up little Bridget, read Anne her favourite tales, bake Cathy some delicious cinnamon biscuits. She would gossip so much with Cece! And she also hoped she would bring some good news to her mum: just the previous day she had been interviewed for a job offer. She hoped she would get accepted as a waitress in a nice hipster restaurant in Shoreditch. They weren’t offering much, but she would only have to wait tables during the weekends, so she wouldn’t need to compromise her studies. They weren’t offering much, Lizzie knew, but she hoped it would help paying her rent at least. Every time she saw her mother the dark circles under her eyes seemed to grow deeper and deeper. Lizzie needed to do something, anything at all. She could not let her mother waste away before her eyes without so much as trying to help.

The manager that had interviewed her had been ever so kind. The woman had smiled at her, even when Lizzie said she had never worked before. Maybe work experience was indeed overrated — maybe job hunting wasn’t so difficult after all. She could do this. Everything was coming into place. Lizzie took her phone in hand and looked at the hour. She forced herself to be calm. They could still arrive on time if they took the tube, for example. The Royal Opera House was just a couple of minutes away from Covent Garden station. She took a look at her messages. Charles had not sent her a text yet… maybe something had happened on his way over to her place?

There was a particular text on her list that she disliked seeing every time she checked her messages. Henry Tudor had sent her a most cryptic _“I need to talk to you”_ but so far he had not, in fact, talked to her. That simple line had left her terribly curious over the short course of a few days, but then Lizzie had decided not to care about it any longer. If it was something that he _needed_ to say, then it was _his_ problem, not hers. Dear lord! Only thinking of him made her eyebrows draw together. It was unpleasant, to say the least, and Lizzie was not going to waste her makeup on unpleasant thoughts.

She tried ringing Charles, but still he wasn’t answering his phone. She most definitely did not want to be perceived like that type of girlfriend, the one who was always complaining, always demanding. But she did have enough reason to ask after his whereabouts in that particular situation, didn’t she? Where was he? That was it: she was going to make herself a cuppa and calm down her nerves. Maybe he was on the tube or some other place where he didn’t get mobile signal. Everything was going to be fine. In a couple of minutes he would be at her door and they would rush out to the streets of Covent Garden.

Lizzie forced herself not to check her phone till the kettle sizzled with boiling water. Again, no new messages. She sat down, the warmth of her cuppa her only comfort and friend. Her eyes wandered to that coffee-stained mug, so used they were to be staring at it. Henry had left it behind, almost like a provocation certainly. Why would he leave it behind? He had always taken his coffee from that mug and he took it regularly throughout the day. The image of Henry working in the kitchen on his laptop, his coffee and calculator on the side, seemed to be deeply ingrained in her memory. Lizzie did not like coffee — she disliked the smell, disliked the taste too. The only tempting thing about coffee was the effect it had on her productivity. Maybe Henry was such a great student for all the coffee he took almost directly into his veins.

The kitchen was so empty now... Was it weird that she felt as if she didn’t have anyone to talk to anymore those days? Oh, but she hated feeling like a burden. When her father was alive she had never lacked for anything, she was just another posh girl from West London. What a difference a few months could make. Suddenly her life had turned chaotic. Suddenly her friends from Kensington & Chelsea had all turned their backs on her without a second thought. Lizzie had learnt the hard way the fickleness of rich people and had sworn that, if she ever had the means again, she would never be like them.

_♫ Have yourself a merry little Christmas…_

She stopped, tuning her ears to listen. The music coming from her room found her alone on a Friday night. Her eyes filled with tears that she dared not to spill, least her makeup be ruined. Finding a tissue, she dabbed it to the corner of her eyes and soaked it all up  _—_ tears going straight to her throat to be swallowed up whole. Zombie steps took her to the room where fairy lights hanged above the door. She opened it slowly, half-expecting to find Frank Sinatra materialised on her carpet.

 _ _♫_ Through the years we all will be together_  
_If the fates allow_  
_Hang a shining star upon the highest bough_  
_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now_

_Merry Christmas. Merry Chris—_

Lizzie stopped the player. She could not, _would not_ listen to that song. Not now, maybe not ever again. It felt like a cruel jape of fate for that song to play when she could not bear to listen to it. She felt angry, which was better than sad really. Angry at Charles for not showing up, angry at Henry for leaving the flat, angry at herself for being so bloody stupid all the time, angry… angry at God for taking her father.

The doorbell rang loudly, cutting the silence, cutting through her blasphemous thoughts. Charles had come at last! They would miss the first act but they could still see the rest of the performance. No, there was still beauty in life. No, it was not God’s fault. How could she even think of that? She sent a silent prayer to the skies asking for forgiveness, feeling incredibly superstitious.

Lizzie hurried to the stairs. _Finally_ , she thought, _finally, finally, finally._

 

* * *

 

It was December, which could only mean one thing: the first semester at Westminster was almost over. Forget carols, forget presents, forget Christmas trees. The rush of submitting essays and coursework consumed every student in the crazed frenzy that came before the holidays. For a time, there was only his classes, and his grades, and his goals. Henry Tudor  _would_ graduate with an honours degree, no matter how much it would take him. Henry kept telling himself that was the true cause for delaying his talk with Lizzie.

In those last couple of weeks he had purposefully avoided the places around campus where he knew she might linger. Maybe it was just that he didn’t want to find her with Charles hanging by her side like a fashionable handbag, or maybe Henry was simply afraid that a sole glance from her would disarm him of his purpose. Her reply to his text had been a short " _What is it?_ " and quite frankly, the question was not foreign to him either.

The days were getting shorter awfully fast. By the time Henry left uni it was already dark, and even darker when he reached his former flat. His fingers hovered above the button to flat 15. They paused, then retreated. Fuck, he needed a cigarette. He was trying hard to keep away from them, but that seemed like an impossible task those last days. He was purposefully not carrying a pack that day, but Henry never left home unprepared. He reached into his pocket, got hold of his lighter, then sneaked a hand inside his jacket where a single cigarette hid. He lit it, took a drag, exhaled.

That cigarette kept him out there longer than it was probably necessary. Henry sighed, impatient with himself at last. What was he, some schoolboy? He pressed the button to his former flat and waited, telling himself he would be brief about it all. It didn't take long for Lizzie to come and answer the door. She opened it very fast, starting at his direction till she saw who it was at the other side of the door. She looked surprised for a moment, then disappointed.

“Oh, it’s... it's you.”

Her voice sounded rather unimpressed. It didn't take her long to assume that look on her face that was reserved for him only. Around everyone else she was as soft as a rose, all smiles and giggles and sweet words. It seemed she had taken a special hard stance with him.

Henry replied grudgingly as befitting the tone of her observation. “Yes, it's me. You said I could come by this hour, remember?”

Lizzie scoffed, looking incredulous. “But that was a fortnight ago!”

“Yes, but I was busy.”

Having a better look at her, Henry could not help but notice that Lizzie was smartly dressed. She was wearing a sharp winged eyeliner as was the default fashion for girls in London (as Henry came to understand, all girls wanted to look like Adele). Certainly she was going out that evening. Probably with her boyfriend.

“I’m sorry I’m not the person you were expecting. Can I come in?”

Lizzie hesitated for a moment. He thought she was about to slam the door shut in his face, but instead she let go of the doorknob and made way for him to go inside. They climbed the small flight of stairs in silence all the way to the flat. Upon closing the door behind her, Lizzie crossed her arms over her chest and asked him as he took off his jacket:

“So… What was it you needed to talk to me?”

“I…” He could feel his resolve faltering under her cold gaze. He loosed the scarf around his neck, shifted his weight from one leg to another. “Since moving out I have…” She tilted her head and arched an eyebrow. _Damn Maud and her text_. “… not come to get the rest of my things. I can only assume they’re taking space.”

“Oh, is that it?” Lizzie took a couple of steps towards him. “You could've said that to Rodrigo, you know. He could help you with that.”

Lizzie looked overly distracting in her evening outfit. The black dress hugged her in such a way Henry had to keep his eyes from trailing down her body. It was good that he knew a thing or two about self-control.  _Shit, Tudor, take a hold of yourself!_

Henry tried his best casual voice. He blinked, assuming unaffected airs. “I’ve heard he’s rarely ever home anymore.”

She took another step towards him. The click of her heels loud on the floor. “That’s true.”

"So." He nodded, as if it was all blatant obvious what he had come to do. 

"So?" She got even closer, so close he could feel the heat radiating off her body. She was rather tall for a woman, but Henry was still taller than her. She looked at him from under darkened lashes. "What else?"

He gripped the jacket he was holding tight. "What do you mean?"

"And? What else have you come to do?"

“Also..."  _Think_. "I’ve left my HP calculator with you. I’d like that back if possible. It's rather expensive.”

Lizzie stopped dead in her tracks. She gave him a sardonic smile and tilted her head sideways in a rather petulant fashion. “Of course, your calculator. As you wish! I'll find a box for your things.”

He watched her go into her room in a whimsical stride. _Nice one, Tudor._

When she came back Henry was already busy in the kitchen gathering the rest of his stuff: a mug, a couple of pot lids, a spatula set, anything that could be found in his old kitchen cabinet. He was surprised to see that the package of dried pasta he had left behind was still there. It seemed things had really changed since he had left.

He took the box Lizzie handed him. “I’m surprised Rodrigo hasn’t eaten this by now. What happened to him? Is he sick?”

Lizzie smiled, even if a bit reluctantly. “He’s fine. He's simply found another place for pillaging food, I reckon.”

“Good thing for you, then."

She shrugged, looking almost dismal. "Oh, I don't know. I rather liked having him in the flat for dinner."

"I think he’ll miss his scolding sessions soon enough, don’t worry.” 

Henry tried his most light-hearted voice, not without effect: Lizzie chuckled. "I hope so. Weirdly I do."

"We'll see. Trust me," He tapped his glasses. "I'm not blind yet."

Lizzie erupted in laughter. God, he had missed that! He missed living with them. Her eyes found his and she smiled again, very softly.

It only lasted a couple of seconds, though. Her phone suddenly started ringing from across the room. Lizzie looked slightly nonplussed, perhaps even regretful, before she rushed from the kitchen with a ' _Sorry, I have to answer that.'_  Henry heard her _hello_ as she opened the door to exit the flat. It was weird that she went outside and not to her room, for instance, but Henry chose not think much of that.

From his place by the kitchen window, he could watch her outside as she walked the pavement back and forth with her phone. Seeing as Lizzie was dressed, certainly it could only mean Charles had come to pick her up. Obviously it could only be that. Henry decided to task himself with packing the rest of his things from the other rooms instead of simply watching them leave together like some pathetic, loser git.

He dedicated himself most wonderfully to the task at hand. It was a skill of his to just focus, sink his mind in whatever it needed to be done. Some solid ten minutes went by before he went back to the kitchen. It was then that he saw that Lizzie was still outside, this time sitting on the steps that lead to the road. He noticed that in her hurry Lizzie had forgotten to take the coat lying on the sofa. Wasn’t she cold? Why did it seem like she never wore proper clothing outside? Henry hastily left his things and went to her.

“Lizzie?" He almost dreaded calling her name. There was a knot in his throat that could not be explained. "Is everything alright?”

She had her back to him, her black silhouette against the moonlight. He watched her shoulders rise and fall, yet no word came from her. He decided to try a different approach. “It’s cold. Do you want me to bring your coat... or maybe something else?”

Still silent, this time she only shook her head. Henry was at a loss for words. “Did— did something happen?”

“Yes.” Her reply was heavy, as if it was difficult for her to speak. 

Henry clenched his fist, feeling anger rising inside him. “Was it Charles?”

The short laugh that escaped her was bitter. “No, it was not Charles. This is not the first time he’s stood me up.” 

She said that so matter-of-factly, Henry was baffled at the possibility of anyone ever doing that to Lizzie. But he set aside his anger to wonder: if not for that insipid idiot… “Then what is it, Lizzie?”

She fell back to silence again. Henry stood for some seconds, unsure of what to do, before he gently went over and lowered himself to her side at the steps. Lizzie kept her head down, the hands that rested on her lap fidgeted with her rings. As she still refused to look at him, Henry tilted his head up to gaze at the faint glittering dots that speckled the sky. It seemed there were multitudes of them that night. If one paid just enough attention, he would see that each one had a different silvery colour. Absorbing the chilly air, Henry took a deep breath and sighed, ever so softly.

“The stars look sad today.”

He heard a sniff, then a muffled sob. He closed the space between them, thigh against thigh, and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. It was all as if that simple gesture broke down her resistance, for tears started copiously flooding down her cheeks. She placed both hands on her face and wept for a long, long time. When she was finished Henry took off his scarf and placed it around her shoulders.

“Go away.” She started, bashfully wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “I must look awful.” A fake laugh punctuated her speech.

“You could never. Not to me." The seriousness in his voice gave her pause, and she looked at him for the first time since her phone call. He cleaned a smudge of eyeliner with his thumb and Lizzie held his gaze for a brief moment before she looked away again.

She blinked absently for some seconds before she said. “It was my mum.”

“It was?”

She nodded. “She told me that she and my sisters received a… a… an eviction notice today.” She paused and bit her lip, her voice thick with emotion. “They’ll start looking for a shelter tomorrow." She wiped another tear that leaked from her eye. "That’s it, you see. My family is officially homeless.”

Henry tried to think of something quick. “Is there a lawsuit under way? Has she tried to talk to the landlord in person?”

Lizzie laughed bitterly. “You know _who_ is her landlord? Her own brother-in-law! My own uncle Richard! Ever since my father's demise he took over everything. He simply does not care about us.”

Henry swallowed hard. It was difficult not to be horrified at what she had just said. He knew that Lizzie had lost her father not so long ago, but he had been completely oblivious to her family drama. Lizzie surely hadn't given away any signs. Still, Henry should have seen it. He _should have seen it_. The first thing Henry had noticed upon meeting Lizzie was that she had the affected airs of someone born into a rich family, and yet something strange must have happened to her fortune. Maybe that familial struggle was at the heart of it all.

Henry took some seconds searching for the right words to say. “I could get legal advice for your mother. I promise I will look into it. They are _not_ going homeless, Lizzie. I promise."

She turned her eyes to him but quickly averted her gaze again. It was as if she had not heard him. “I can’t just… stand back like this. I can’t stay here and watch. The part-time job I was hoping to get doesn't pay the whole rent and my mum can’t help me anymore. I've got to… do something.”

Henry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Her lips trembled. “Drop out from uni. I don't know. Find a proper job.” She hid her face behind her hands again.

It hurt him to see her like this. Henry stroked her arm gently, as awkward as the gesture turned out to be. “Lizzie, listen. You don’t have to do that. I know how much graduating means to you. I can't let you do that.”

The voice that replied was partially muffled. “But what can I do? I can’t stay here as if nothing happened! Not while all my sisters are in desperate need of money.”

“You can stay at my place, free of charge.” Henry suggested, maybe a tad too fast. “That is, until your family is back on their feet.” Lizzie dropped the hands from her face and looked at him for some seconds, utterly dumbfounded.

Her eyes were wide. “I can’t accept that.”

“I’m not being funny, Lizzie. I don’t want you to give up.”

“But… what about Rodrigo?”

Henry furrowed his brows in thought. Lizzie definitely had a point. “We’ll figure it out. It’s his final year and he’ll go back to Spain after his graduation. I honestly doubt he’ll stay there for long, but—”

“Yet I can't do that to him!”

It was almost comical to watch Lizzie in the midst of her own tragedy taking pity on someone else. _She is such a soft thing_ , he thought in an odd tender note, her heart was too warm, too big for herself. Henry slid an arm across her back and squeezed her shoulder gently. “Take your time, ok? We’ll figure it out.”

She looked at him from beneath her lashes, almost cautiously, before she chose to ask him. “And what would Maud say about it?”

He was confused for a moment. “Maud? What about Maud?”

“Well, isn’t she your girlfriend?”

“God! No, Lizzie!” He interrupted her before she could complete another question. “Why did she say so, you ask? The girl— the girl is bonkers! I've got no explanation whatsoever. She’s a longtime friend, that’s all.”

But was Maud right after all? Was it possible that Lizzie brightened up ever so slightly after he denied the whole story? Henry watched her for long stretching seconds, feeling emboldened enough to stare. The moonlight shone down on her hair with a soft glow. She was like a white dove that he didn't want to let go. He wanted to keep it between his hands.

She lowered her eyes, casting shadows on her cheeks. At that moment only, she looked almost shy. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

It was all so plain to him, he was stunned she could not see it. “You think I don’t care about you?”

She chuckled softly. “Well, you made a jolly good job of looking like you don’t.”

Henry half-smiled, feeling a sting in his heart. “I’ve been an arsehole. And for that... I apologise.”

Lizzie looked at him again, an honest, powerful gaze. Henry had never seen her at such vulnerable state, and yet there was still an undeniable strength to her. He caught himself leaning towards her till she pressed a hand to his chest. “Could you please just… just hold me for a while, will you?”

Henry nodded and circled his arms around her in the comfiest of embraces. He landed his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. Her breathing touched his neck like a caress travelling down his chest. Up above, the twinkling spheres spoke of ancient secrets that could not be named. Suddenly the air was less chilly, the night less bleak, and the stars no longer looked so sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A thousand dreams within me softly burn" is a quote by Arthur Rimbaud. The complete excerpt is: 
> 
> "A thousand dreams within me softly burn:  
> From time to time my heart is like some oak  
> Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn."
> 
> We know that Elizabeth of York wrote poetry. There is a very famous poem attributed to her that starts as: "My heart is set upon a lusty pin / I pray to Venus of good continuance." It is said she wrote it to her husband, Henry VII.
> 
> In this verse, Lizzie also loves poetry and the dancing rhythm of words. She's always got this or that other line stuck in her mind. Just a little bit of fic trivia that I wanted to share.


	5. Chapter 5

It was just the worst time of the year for going out for a smoke. January weather meant his hands would soon ache in the freezing air. It meant he would have to take off one glove, else his otherwise deft fingers would turn unable to hold his cigarette in any elegant way. Yet braving the winds was not really a choice, was it? Once Henry had a warm scarf wound around his neck and a lit cigarette between his lips, he was sure all reminder of cold would be gone from his system.

January, on the other hand, also bore good tidings: it meant that, as classes were just starting again, Henry could find the perfect spot for a drag. The smoking areas on campus were usually deserted that time of the year. January meant quietness for his solitude, drag after drag, empty spaces full with crowded thoughts. Each cloud of smoke was a nicotine-driven musing. _La cigarette,_ asthey said, _la nourriture de l’âme_.

“Henry.”  
  
He didn’t need to search for a face to recognise that voice. The words left his lips easily.

“Lizzie.”

He turned, and he found her standing timidly some steps back, thick woolen scarf paired with a white hat, hands stuffed inside the pockets of her coat. Her cheeks were painted pink and so was the tip of her nose.

“Hey.”

She mirrored the same smile that tugged at his lips, then stepped closer. “How were your holidays?”

“Great.” He stated airily. If Henry were to be honest, his holidays had been rather uneventful. His uncle had paraded him about the whole extension of Wales to visit this or that other distant relative, it had seemed. But he was sure that was a necessary family evil one had to endure from time to time.

Henry was putting out his cigarette when Lizzie extended out a hand. “Oh no, please, you don’t need to— I mean, if it’s because I’m here—”

“No, it’s quite alright." He said, putting back his glove. "I’ve quit.”

Lizzie stared blankly at the butt end, most criminallyplaced in his hand, then frowned slightly. “Okay.”

“I mean… not exactly.” Henry felt a warm influx of heat creeping up his neck. “Not... now. It’s just that— well, I’ve got these internship interviews coming up and I’ve been rather... stressed... lately.”

An internship in the City, the most traditional financial centre of London, was something avidly sought out by every Business major. If all went according to plan, Henry would get to be an intern in one of the most renowned companies of the UK. A last accomplishment to crown his last months at uni. _If_ everything went according to plan, that was.

Henry didn’t know why we was telling Lizzie any of that. He felt silly exposing that, but Lizzie was quick to reassure him, nodding and flailing her hands in the air as if batting off a fly. “I understand.”

He almost didn’t feel the relieved puff of air that escaped him, though he saw its cloudy track marking the space between them.

“Although…” Lizzie started again, eyes fixed on him as if cooing a baby. “Although smoking is a bad way... you know, a bad way to cope with stress.”

He swallowed hard. “I know.”

“I mean, no— please just forget what I said.” She shook her head, her cheeks turning a darker shade of pink. _Shit_ , she was so fucking adorable when she did that. “It’s not really my place to tell you that.”

“No, no. It’s alright. Really.”

He smiled, an awkward smile that he was sure didn’t quite match his eyebrows or the rest of his face, but she did that very same smile too, turning her gaze at the floor and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. _Quiproquos et vexations_.

Other than a couple of texts and a meeting with his mother and Mr. Bray, the solicitor, it was the first time they properly saw each other over the course of three weeks. It was the first time they could talk face to face since Lizzie had opened up to him, a night that seemed so long ago it almost felt like a dream. Henry had vowed to help her then, but the situation had left them in a strange footing around each other.

He had suggested she could stay at his place — the mad folly of a moment— yet he was relieved she didn’t accept his offer. Henry didn’t want to look like he was taking advantage of her, of her misery or her desperation. They were not flatmates anymore, and they weren’t exactly friends either. What were they, then? All Henry knew was that it had felt too nice holding Lizzie in his arms, if only for the short expense of a moment. The sensation almost verged into addiction territory. He felt that truth just now, _au bout des doigts_. His fingertips tingled to touch.

What were they doing at that moment, two people standing awkwardly on the corner of Library Square? Henry picked the first thing that came to his mind and ran with it. “I... hope you had great holidays too.”

“I did.” Her expression was soft, almost tender. “And thanks to you, actually.” She looked away at the trees, the sky, the crunched leaves piled up on the ground, before she could meet his eyes again. “Henry, I have to say… I... really appreciate how you’ve helped me out so far. And your mother and Mr. Bray have been incredibly, incredibly helpful. I—”

She paused abruptly and looked as if about to give up her speech completely. But his intent gaze on hers must have made some effect on her resolve. “—I was so... lost that night. I didn’t know what to do. But thank you, truly.” She reached for his wrist and squeezed it. “Thanks for saving Christmas.”

She said those words with such earnestness. No one but Lizzie could do that. No one else could say that statement without sounding stupidly naïve or childish.

“Did I?”

Henry pulled a face, feigning confusion. As though he didn’t know himself. As though he hadn’t easily taken the first opportunity he had to play the white knight in shining armour. At the end of the day it was all too comfortable to save the princess, it felt all too good to be the saviour.

“Saving Christmas, you say? Lizzie, I know it’s the glasses, but I had hoped I didn’t look old enough to play Father Christmas just yet.”

Lizzie snorted. “Well, not so old to play Santa, maybe. But definitely old enough to play Scrooge.”

“Scrooge? Ouch. That hurts all three of my feelings. Is that what you think of me? ”

She was still laughing, merrily, like the pretty bird that she was. Her breath painted the air with fresh white clouds. “Well, that was before. Before I knew you.”

Her voice was so sincere, Henry didn’t really know how to reply to it. It was easier to just bandy words around, easier to leave your feelings piling up behind a thick layer of rust and let banter lead on like a comfortable mask.

“I think… that we both had some rather unpleasant prejudices about each other.”

She nodded. “We did.”

“Can we... start over?” He stretched out a hand between them.

Lizzie looked at his extended fingers only for a second before she reached out, bridging the gap. One of her hands left the warm nest of her pocket to land on his own. Gloved hands that touched, mauve velvet against black leather. They went up and down together.

“I didn’t know you were the type to shake hands. It’s rather—”

“Old-fashioned?”

She chuckled. “ _Quaint_ is the word I’d use.”

 _Of course she would use that word. Of course she would_. “So old-fashioned, but like, charming.”

She always squinted her eyes when she laughed.

“I don’t mind, really. I’ll take the charming bit.”  

Her laugh died off, and they both realised they were still holding hands. Hands that were quickly, albeit clumsily, dropped.

“Hmm… I’ve got a lecture starting just in a minute.” Lizzie started, bouncing from foot to foot. “I should probably get going.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“See you later, then.”

Lizzie was just off the square, Henry himself turning to take the path to his class, when she stopped and turned. “Oi, Henry!”

Henry cocked an eyebrow and she took the steps back to his side — quickly, as if she had left something behind and was hurrying to retrieve it.

“You will absolutely ace those interviews.” She said breathless as she went back. “You’ve got a great handshake— I know it sounds silly, but my dad always said he could tell a good business partner by his handshake and— I mean... it does sound silly now that I’ve said that aloud."

“No, you’re absolutely right.” Henry winked at her. “See, I was all just a ruse to get your hand. Thanks for letting me practice.”

Slowly, Lizzie smiled the most exquisite smile: a smile so bright it almost broke his heart. _Almost_  — if he had had a heart in the first place, he might have needed to mend it. He felt going all soft, and he immediately knew he had ventured too far. Just a month before, he had wanted nothing more than to be on his own, strings unattached from anyone. Instead, it seemed he had been pushed into her life even more. Lizzie had him cornered into the edge of a precipice. Henry took a deep breath and leapt.

 

* * *

  
  
The Thames smelled funny that day, Lizzie reckoned, as she paved the cobbles of Butler’s Wharf pier. It had drizzled lightly in the morning, a typical January weather, but the mist had been swept away by the changing winds and now London basked in the white milky light of a winter sun. Her path along the river took her to an ancient warehouse where the tea trade had once flourished. Now that building housed luxury flats and fancy laid-back restaurants. It was only fitting that her mother would invite her to take their afternoon tea in one of such places in Butler’s Wharf.

Yet, as Lizzie walked along the dazzling sight of the skyscrapers that loomed behind the Tower of London, she could not help but worry if the place her mother had chosen would not in fact turn out to be too expensive for them. Lizzie thought she had been the only one struggling with learning how to live on a budget. Perhaps she had been wrong.

When Lizzie arrived at the restaurant she was already ten minutes late. She removed her gloves to check the location on her phone and shot a last wishful glance at the view before she entered. If not for the biting cold, they might have been able to sit on the decked terrace facing Tower Bridge. As she rushed past the entrance doors and quickly scanned the place in search of her mother, her eyes instantly found a blonde head that beckoned her with a small wave and a soft smile.

“Mother!” she cried merrily as she came to her side, bending down to kiss her cheek and give her a quick hug.

Elizabeth Woodville York looked her up and down with an appraising eye. “My dearest Lizzie. How’s everything at uni? So far so good?”

The semester had just started again and Lizzie was back at juggling her studies and now, a part-time job. (She knew she would get that job — her intuition couldn't always be wrong). She was glad she wouldn’t have to quit uni, though, if everything really turned out as well as she hoped it would. Her mother and sisters were still at the house, and uncle Richard had to find another place for his ambitions, at least for a time.

Lizzie took off her thick wool coat and her scarf and hung it on the back of her seat before sitting down. “It’s been fine, mum. I’ve got so many things to talk to you.”

Namely, she thought, some resolutions regarding her love life and Charles. Her mother had never been too fond of him, and Lizzie had begun to see that Charles had never, in fact, cared all that much about her. It was odd, though, that she did not feel so upset about it. Shouldn't she be feeling sadder? Maybe, just  _maybe_ , Lizzie herself had never been too strongly attached to him. 

Lizzie squeezed the hand laid over the table and mused. “But first you will have to tell me why you booked this table. It’s too big for us, isn't it?”

The amused glint in her mother’s eyes and the upturned corners of her mouth told Lizzie she had some mischief in mind. “You see, they only had available this table for four, and we certainly wouldn’t fit in a table for two.”

Lizzie furrowed her brows, befuddled. “Why wouldn’t we… are you expecting company?”

" _We_ are expecting company." Her mum shushed her with a light tap on her hand. “Besides, my dear, I was not the one who made the reservation.”

A rising suspicion crept up on Lizzie. “Mum, please. If not you, then who made the booking?”

Her mother looked over her shoulder and tilted her chin forwards. “That fine young chap coming over, I presume.”

Before she could display any ounce of self-control, Lizzie’s head turned around so fast she thought she heard her spine snapping. One of her worst fears came alive as she saw Henry Tudor heading towards them. He looked slightly short-winded in his haste, an apologetic look crossing his features as he took off his thick scarf to join them.

“I can’t believe you invited him, mum!” She growled in a low voice. They were taking so much of his time already as it was! Her levels of embarrassment reached a new high as she saw her mother donning her familiar business-like smile.

“You know why I had to do it. He’s helping me with the lawsuit.” Her mother pinched her lightly on the side. “Now, come on. Don’t be rude. Smile!”

Henry stopped by their table and greeted them with a short nod. “Lizzie. And I take this is Mrs York? I am terribly sorry for my lateness.”

Lizzie’s mum took the hand he extended and shook it. “No need for apologies. It’s not been five minutes since Lizzie arrived. Please sit down.”

Henry took off his long overcoat and lowered himself into the seat across her mother’s, which also happened to be the one right next to Lizzie's. He smoothed a hand over his sandy curls and fixed the glasses falling off the bridge of his nose before he began. “Mrs York, I do feel the need to apologise, though. I’ve just come from a couple of interviews in the City and I had no idea I would be held up to this hour. I’d hate to cause the wrong impression, of course.”

Lizzie glanced at the leather satchel resting next to his brand-new looking shoes. Going to a couple of interviews that day rather explained his smartly fitted attire. He wore a charcoal blazer and a navy jumper over a white dress shirt. The overcoat that by now hung on the back of his seat was lighter than his blazer, almost a dove grey really. A fine finishing touch was the blue tartan tie that brought out the colour of his eyes just nicely.

Lizzie had never seen him looking so… dapper, for lack of a better word. On a second note though, Lizzie mused, it was not like Henry had ever been sloppy with his dressing. She was yanked out of her reverie by her mother’s humming and the tapping of her nails on the table.

“Pooh, nonsense! My late husband worked in the City all his life. I personally know they can be very demanding, especially with aspiring young men like you.”

Lizzie had to cut in. “I bet you did great in the interviews, Henry. I wish you the best of luck.”

She was looking at him fully and he thanked her with a brief smile, but he did not hold her gaze for too long. There had been something slightly off with him, off with _them_ , since that night before the holidays, that one time when she had cried on his shoulder most embarrassingly. But again, Lizzie was almost sure he felt the same about her. Something between them had changed, and not in a comfortable way sadly, which made this meeting all the more awkward.

A waitress came over to place the tea setting on the table: plates, pastry forks and butter knives, tea cups, saucers and teaspoons, sugar bowls and milk jugs. A pair of tiered cake stands was brought before them, one larger than the other, both fully graced with delicious-looking scones, cakes and finger sandwiches.

“Oh, yes, about that.” Lizzie’s mother started, “Henry, as I was waiting I took the liberty to order a double one for you and Lizzie, if that’s not a problem. I just assumed it’s cheaper that way, and as you've offered to pay, I didn’t want to abuse your generosity.” 

 _Wait!_  So it was Henry the one who was going to pay for their meal? Lizzie felt her ears burning.

He shot a look at Lizzie. “That’s not a problem at all, Mrs York. I mean, if Lizzie is ok with sharing, of course.” Lizzie simply nodded her consent, though at that moment she’d rather have her head stuck in the sand. 

The waitress asked them about their choice of tea and Mrs York was the first one to reply. “Darjeeling tea, if you so happen to have it. You do? Brilliant. Lizzie, what about you, darling?”

As she checked the menu, Lizzie was pleasantly surprised they were still serving their holiday specials. She spotted the perfect festive tea, described as _a blend of red rooibos, juicy cranberries and warming vanilla._ Lizzie happily smiled to herself, for she dearly loved a good seasonal drink. 

“I’ll have the Rudolph Red Rooibos, please.” She caught a bemused Henry staring at her from above his menu, well on the verge of laughter, it seemed. She gave him a small smile and shrugged as if to say  _you know I’m a Christmas freak!_

“And Henry?” Her mother raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Henry doesn’t like tea, mum.” Lizzie’s voice came out sounding rather defensive. But good lord! She wished her mother would stop being such a pushover at times!

“Oh, no? Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“Actually, I’ll have Earl Grey, please.” Henry simply stated as he closed his menu, and the waitress promptly went back to fetch their tea.

“A good choice.” her mother commented, filling her plate with a couple of finger sandwiches from her stand. “Simple and effective. Just the right amount of flavour to the traditional tea.” 

How come Lizzie had never seen him enjoying a good old cuppa before? Granted, she had never paid much attention to what was inside his mug most of the times she found him in the kitchen. She had always assumed it was simply coffee he was having. And yet, at that moment Lizzie must have looked quite gobsmacked, for Henry felt the need to explain himself.

“I do drink tea on occasion, yes. But I like to think I’m a fairly simple Brit. I don’t care for much else as long as it’s simple tea, as black as my own heart.”

Lizzie let out a small laugh. “That’s entirely not true!”

Why, he fancied himself a cold heart! She nibbled softly at a scone plastered with clotted cream and strawberries. She watched as his eyes followed the movements of her fingers. She couldn't help wondering: was he looking at her scone, or at her lips?

“Henry, tea is all about the brand, you see.” Lizzie’s mum quipped. “If you’re taking one of those horrid PG tips or Tetley tea bags, then you’re in for a mediocre experience. Next time you find yourself at the supermarket, buy Yorkshire Tea. It’s a proper brew with the best blend of leaves. I’ll be chuffed to bits if you like it.”

Henry exchanged a bemused look with Lizzie. “I’ll make sure I’ll try it, Mrs York.”

The waitress finally came with the teapots and poured for each of them. The three enjoyed a moment of silence as the heat and steam of their beverage rose from cup to nose, bringing a cosy warm feeling to the heart. The metallic sound of Mrs York placing her teaspoon on the saucer rose them from their thoughts.

“Henry, I’m afraid I didn’t come here for chinwag, as much as I do love a good banter. I’ll cut the chitchat and get straight to the point: I must thank you for your help with the lawsuit.”

Henry shook his head slightly. “I did next to nothing, Mrs York, but I’m glad I introduced Bray to you. He’s been my mother’s solicitor for years. He’s very proficient at what he does and we trust him to do his very best.”

Lizzie’s mum blinked, a queer glint in her eyes. “Your mother’s name is Margaret Beaufort, isn’t it? Lizzie told me so. Is that her maiden name?”

“Yes, she didn’t take my father’s when they married.”

“I have the impression that I know her… I don’t know from where, though…” Mrs York took a sip from her cup and feigned a pensive look. Lizzie sometimes wondered if her mother’s cunning was as blatantly evident to other people as it was for herself. “Wait, I think I remember now. Is she the wife of Thomas Stanley?”

Henry nodded as he sipped from his cup. If he thought he was being subtle by busying himself with his tea instead of eating the last salmon crostini, he was entirely too wrong. Lizzie suspected he knew how much she loved a good smoked salmon, especially one with cream cheese, so he scarcely touched the food. He landed his cup on the saucer with a clank. “Yes, Mrs York. As it is, he's my stepfather.”

“Is he?" Again, large eyes as if she was surprised. "Stanley was one of my husband’s longtime associates. So that’s how I remember your mother… That’s quite interesting, isn’t it? We live in a small world if we stop to think about it. For instance, look at you and Lizzie—”

“Mum, did you know Henry’s mother has her own publishing company?” Lizzie had to cut in before her mother could get out of hand. “How amazing is that?” 

Mrs York shot a slightly confused look between Lizzie and Henry. “Why, it is indeed—”

“Her recent project is all about promoting female authors.” Henry added, sharing a look with Lizzie from above his cup. She took the hint.

“A noble cause! Don’t you think, mum?”

“Quite, quite so. Well I think—”

“It’s more like the work of a life, really. She’s very dedicated to it.” Henry swallowed the rest of his drink with a gulp.

Lizzie smiled shyly, looking down at her lap. “Oh, look!” she said. “We’re almost done.” She gestured vaguely at the cake stands, then turned to the passing waitress nearby. “Can you bring us the check, please?” 

Mrs York cleaned her hands on the serviettes. “Well, I must say this was a pleasant meeting. Wasn’t it, Lizzie my dear? I’m afraid this whole eviction lawsuit has been a dreadful, dreadful business. My husband’s family has never really taken to me. It pains me to say so, but I know they thought me a scheming gold-digger the moment I married Edward.”

“Mum!” Lizzie protested, extremely vexed. Henry didn’t need to know all the gruesome details of her family drama.

“Lizzie, you know this is true. I’m being honest with Henry, is all. Your father’s relatives deem themselves the icing on the cake. All because they descend from some ancient Plantagenet king. The absurdity of it all.”

Lizzie felt like dying of embarrassment. “Even so, mum...”

“It’s alright, Lizzie.” Henry touched her knee from beneath the table, his fingertips lingering briefly on her tights. For a moment only, Lizzie forgot all about her mother’s venting to focus on the pressure of that hand. What was wrong with her that day?

As the waitress came back, they got up from the table and Henry offered to pay for the meal as her mother had expected. Lizzie felt silly not protesting against it, but her mother grabbed her by the hand before she could say anything and told Henry they would wait for him outside. As soon as they stepped on the pier they put on their coats, scarves and gloves, greeted as they were by the chilling wind. 

“He’s quite dashing, your Henry.” A congenial smile brightened her mother’s features as she watched Henry Tudor put on his coat before crossing the doors.

“He’s not my Henry.” Lizzie grudgingly replied.

“Perhaps... not for now.”

Lizzie whirled around to voice her protest, but Henry joined them before she could.

“Oh, so this is where we part ways.” Her mother kissed Lizzie's cheek before approaching Henry. “I’m walking to Bermondsey station. I’m taking the Jubilee line. What about you two?”

Henry shot a glance at Lizzie, as if making sure they would be walking together before he replied. “We’re taking the tube at Tower Hill.”

Her mother offered him a gloved hand. “Oh, I see.”

Henry shook hands with Mrs York, and Lizzie could only watch her mother’s back as she leaned in closer and not so quietly muttered “Take care of Lizzie, will you?”

His eyes sought Lizzie’s instantly, and he solemnly nodded. “Trust me, I will.”

Lizzie was sure her face must have been devoid of all colour as she watched her mother go. She began to slowly walk with Henry to the station, the crisp air turning their breaths into small clouds. She eyed him walking beside her, his hands in his pockets, his thick scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

“Sorry about my mother.” She awkwardly mumbled.

He offered her a small smile in turn. “Don’t worry about it.”

Daylight was fading fast as an early twilight sky fell upon them. The few Christmas decorations that still remained along the river path were already lit, as was Tower Bridge in all its glory. Not so far from them, the financial buildings of the City glowed through their glass windows — the Cheesegrater, the Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie, and many others whose nicknames Lizzie did not know. She watched them all come alive as the winter night approached them.

As they crossed the bridge Henry pulled Lizzie from her reverie. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Lizzie followed his gaze and understood he was talking about the Tower. He sighed softly as if he was suddenly knackered, taking off his blurred glasses to wipe them on his scarf. “A sight, really. How many stories does it hold?”

Lizzie looked at the beige walls of the Tower of London, lit here and there by spotlights. And to think that those walls, as well as Westminster’s, once had been white. She repressed a shudder. “Every time I look at the Tower I get a strange feeling... A sense of impending doom.”

His eyes turned to her, inquisitive, bright and blue. Lizzie tried to shrug the feeling off. “I don’t know why. It must be the stories.”

Henry arched an eyebrow. “The princes in the Tower, for one?”

She nodded. “A dreadful tale. Do you believe an uncle could murder his own nephews?” 

Henry looked at her as if he understood her completely, as if he was seeing her for who she truly was for the first time. Lizzie shivered under his gaze, but hoped that she could shrug it off as the coldness of the wind.

“I don’t think we’ll ever know the answer to that mystery, Lizzie. Not even the bodies that were found could be DNA tested at the time." Henry talked slowly, letting her absorb all he had to say. "In a situation like this we've got two options: we can accept what we have as positive evidence and roll along with it, or… We can speculate, listen to the stories and make of them what we will.”

She knew that what he said was true, and logical and sensible. Lizzie expected nothing less from him. She shrugged again. “Well, you know which one is much more fun.” 

He chuckled. She took the glasses he was still holding in his hands and wiped them on her own scarf. Hers was a red blanket scarf that matched her burgundy gloves, its fabric much more delicate than his. She then returned his glasses, getting on her tiptoes to place them above a reddened nose. As they started again their walk along Tower Bridge, she laced an arm with him. She could not pinpoint the reason, but perhaps for the first time ever it felt right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lizzie's mum is Elizabeth Woodville, queen of England, wife to Edward IV. Margaret Beaufort (Henry VII's mother) and Elizabeth Woodville were the ones to arrange the marriage between Elizabeth of York and Henry Tudor, so it makes sense she would be perhaps a bit too eager to push Lizzie into Henry's arms. As in real life, Elizabeth had good reasons for doing so.
> 
> The restaurant in Butler's Wharf indeed exists - it's called Browns Brasserie & Bar, if anyone wants to know. The views are insanely beautiful from there. You can simultaneously see the Tower, Tower Bridge and the City.


	6. Chapter 6

_Tuesday_

 

Lizzie had woken up to a bad dream that morning. It seemed she was having plenty of nightmares those days, but she knew that one specifically well. She’d had that same dream a few times before. It would all start off as clear as day, almost frame by frame following the path of her memory. In her dream she would wander off through the halls of Westminster, climb and descend the stairs. Every time she turned a new corridor the pile of books she was carrying would get bigger, heavier. Somehow she would end up at the student’s café, Charles sitting across from her.

“I think we should break up.” Lizzie would try in her most serious, careful voice.

A second of silence. His reply would come as a sudden laugh. A laugh that would grow to be so loud Lizzie knew that was not what had really happened in real life. It could not have. She would duck her head to muster up her courage, and look at his eyes again. “Why are you laughing?”

“Lizzie, chérie.” He’d start in his French accent, combing his hair with his fingers. “Do you think  _this_ was something that needed closure? Allô!” He would snap his fingers at the side of her head, making her wince. “Hello? Is there anything inside this melon?”

All she could do was blink, gobsmacked by his rudeness. “It was not?”

“We were just fooling around, weren't we? It was never meant to be serious.” He'd stop and look at her with unkind eyes. "Why, you thought we had something?"

Lizzie would be rendered speechless. It all made perfect sense — every time he didn’t call her back, days after days without sending a text, every time he had ghosted her, stood her up. “But surely… surely I’m not crazy to have thought that—”

“You’re not special.”

At that she would look up back at him and watch his sardonic smile grow and grow, an endless line. It threatened to rip out his cheeks, such a grotesque smile it was. It made her want to scream. That was the point where she was no longer sure whether that had really happened or if it was all a product of her imagination messing up her memory. No, it could not have happened. It could not.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not special.” Charles would repeat, relentlessly driving the words into her head. “Oh, you’ve got a pretty face, that's sure. You're pretty and smart enough for a girlfriend, let's say. But there’s a dozen girls like you on this campus alone. You’re not special, Lizzie.”

_You’re not special._

Her dream would start spinning, bright colours turning into shapes that blocked her vision till she woke up.

  
***  
    

> **Henry T.**
> 
> Hey, I saw you at uni yesterday.  
>  You looked a bit gloomy.  
>  Is everything ok? x 
> 
> Here’s a pic to cheer you up btw:  
> 

  

> **Lizzie**  
>    
>  Henry Tudor, did you just send me a meme?

      

> **Henry T.**
> 
> Is that a meme?

 

> **Lizzie  
>    
>  ** YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT A MEME IS??

     

> **Henry T.**
> 
> I know what a meme is.
> 
> An image, video, or set of text that becomes popular and spreads rapidly via the internet.

 

> **Lizzie**
> 
> Did you just... use urban dictionary for that? 

    

> **Henry T.**
> 
> I might have.

 

 _Such a dork._ Lizzie smiled down at her mobile screen. She knew she should not be grinning like a fool at something so simple as a meme sent via text. She should not, and yet, she could not stop it. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, but her feet felt light as air as she made her way to uni. Someone  _did_ care about her after all. She  _was_ special, in some small way at least. Whatever way that was… no, she should not think about that. Henry was her friend, wasn't him? They had only recently found a comfortable place in their relationship. Messing up what they had could only result in a mistake. The price to pay if anything went wrong would be too high, and she certainly could not afford it. Not at that moment, at least. As long as the lawsuit went on and she needed his help, her relationship with Henry had to remain clean and civil. It had to be perfectly amicable, almost professional. It was the best thing to do for both their sakes. She kept walking and telling herself that much.

> **Lizzie**
> 
> On an unrelated note, are you coming to Nando's after class? xx

 

* * *

 

_Saturday_

 

Henry woke to the sound of a strange mumble, the weight of something pressing down on his arm. The room was dark, safe from the colours coming from his laptop screen. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness. Something beside him moved and he  _remembered_. He twisted around to find Lizzie sleeping on his arm, one arm circling his waist. God, they had fallen sleep on the sofa, hadn’t they? Henry hadn’t even removed his contacts, he could feel his eyes turning red. The end credits on the screen reminded him of the film night he had sorted with his former flatmates.

It had all started during a typical Cheeky Nando’s after uni — a charmless, cheap event and restaurant that Henry had been dragged to but that he usually avoided like the plague. Between a spicy chicken wing or two, Lizzie had uttered the sentence “ _I have never watched Lord of the Rings”_ for the absolute shock and disbelief of everyone present at their table. It had been settled there and then: Rodrigo, the self-declared greatest Tolkien fan ever, and Lizzie were to come over and binge watch the trilogy at his place.

Of course they couldn’t get to the very end. Rodrigo left during the second film, claiming he had heaps of coursework he had yet to finish. Lizzie had stayed, even though she had pulled an all-nighter just the night before to submit an essay. She wanted to know what would happen to Faramir.  _“It's going to be worse than the books, isn't it?”_  Henry had brushed it off without telling her any spoilers. Well, it seemed she didn’t find out what happened to Faramir after all, since they both had fallen asleep in the middle of the third film.

Henry was lying on his side and Lizzie was snuggled up against him, legs tucked inside his duvet. The bowl of snacks was half-turned on the coffee table, crisps and popcorn were everywhere. Her trainers were messily slumped on the floor. It was all very particularly  _Lizzie_ , just like old times. For a moment he debated with himself whether he should wake her or not; she looked so peaceful sleeping. He brushed a strand of golden hair falling on her face, tucked it behind her ear. There was a tingling sensation at the tip of his fingers, a strange pressure on his chest spreading throughout his body. He wanted to drag his fingertips across her cheek, feel the softness of her skin.  _Shit_. Henry let out a quiet, heavy sigh. It wasn’t the right thing to do _._

Henry reached for his phone lying on the coffee table only so he could have something, anything to occupy his hands with. He unlocked the screen and tapped to read the texts he had received the previous night: the lads were sorting tickets for their next gig… his mum was asking about his week… and oh, there it was. An overly enthusiastic text from his boss François.

At the beginning of his internship Henry had thought hitting off with his boss right away was a good thing. François Monfort was a thoroughly proud Breton, one who had been greatly happy to hear his intern had attended a prestigious lycée in France, and more specifically, in Brittany. Only now it meant Henry was bound to receive unwanted texts at all hours of the day and night. Suddenly it became a habit to ask Henry personal favours like fetching his relatives at the airport or buying his wife a gift. On top of all his normal responsibilities it was absurdly annoying, but Henry didn’t have much choice in the matter. He needed an internship if he was ever to graduate at Westminster that year. And Henry suspected that Pierre, François’ assistant, would be only too glad to see him go. No, Henry wasn’t a quitter — above all things, he’d stay at the company if only to spite Pierre Landais. 

> **Mr**   **Montfort**  
> 
> HENRY!

He read his name the way François called him:  _Henri_ , à la française. 

> **Mr Montfort**
> 
> I’m giving you the OutCast’s account! I can’t think of anyone better suited for the task. I’m confident you’ll do a great job! Don’t forget to bring a full report by our next briefing.
> 
> P.S.: Remind me to talk to Paul on Monday.

_Great, another account_. Staring at the text he felt the familiar sting of anxiety worming its way into his brain. God, he felt like he needed a cigarette. He put his mobile aside, yet could not think of anything else other than starting the report right there and then, no matter how late in the night. If maybe he was sufficiently sneaky he might get to his laptop without waking Lizzie. 

He meant to move when he heard a sound. It was Lizzie herself, talking in her sleep. He kept very still and tuned his ears to listen. Amidst a bunch of incomprehensible words he heard “ _I’m a princess_ ”. He looked at her, entirely bemused himself, and she was smiling. _“I’m a princess”_ , she kept saying, _“A dragon princess”_. Henry had to suppress a laughter. She might have watched Lord of the Rings that night, but it seemed she was still thinking about that season finale of Game of Thrones. Lizzie mumbled some other words he couldn’t understand until he heard _“That’s my home”_ and _“Henry”_.

 _What?_  Did he hear that right? Henry watched her face going into a frown. “No, no. Mr Dragon, please. Don’t destroy my home.”

Henry gently poked Lizzie, trying to wake her, to no avail.

“Mr Dragon, please.”

Henry started shaking her gently.“Hey, hey. Daenerys Targaryen, wake up. Wake up, Lizzie.”  

“Henry, no!”

He gave her a hard shake and Lizzie woke up with a gasp. “What? What?”

Lizzie pulled herself up into a sitting position and Henry did the same. He touched her arm and squeezed it lightly, trying to direct her gaze to him. “Hey, hey. Lizzie, what happened? Was it a nightmare?”

In the semi-darkness of the room, Lizzie squinted her eyes at him. Her hair was disheveled, her brows furred together. She had the look of someone who had just been run over by a car. She blinked hard for a few seconds. “So-sorry?”

“You were talking in your sleep. It sounded rather bad, actually.”

Lizzie hummed a negative response and averted her gaze. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Henry let out a growl. “Lizzie, come on! You  _must_  remember something. You just woke up!”

“I don’t _—_  No. Absolutely not.” Lizzie shook her head in the clumsiest way possible. 

“So you’re telling me you don’t remember anything? Anything at all?”

Her tone was final. “No.”

Lizzie had her blank face on, but it was all so positively plain she was lying, Henry decided to tease her a bit. He started by scratching his jaw. “Here’s what’s funny, though. You said you were a princess. Actually, there was a dragon from what I heard. Curiouser and curioser… I wonder if _—_ ”

She covered her face with her hands. “Oh God! You heard everything, didn’t you?”

Henry laughed aloud, a full-blown laughter he hadn’t had in days, maybe even weeks. But he soon remembered it was late, so he stopped himself. “Lizzie, but why was I in your dream?” She started shaking her head again and he tapped her hand lightly. “Alors! Don’t deny it! I heard you saying my name.”

Lizzie looked so distraught in her drowsy state that Henry almost pitied pressing her to talk. “I… I... Oh, alright, alright! You were there. You were the dragon.”

Henry sputtered in laughter again. “ _I_ was the dragon!?”

Lizzie rolled her eyes, mocking his laughter. “Yes, you were the dragon. Sometimes you were this monstrous creature with big dragon wings and red scales and sometimes you were just like yourself, with your own face. I don’t know how to explain it, but that’s what happened. Are you happy now?”

Henry wiped the small tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Quite so.” By then he wanted to stop his chuckling, but her vexed expression was too much for him. He couldn’t resist taking the piss. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. But you should’ve seen your face.” 

She opened her mouth to offer some sly retort of her own, but instead she stopped mid-sentence and her eyes went wide. “What time is it?”

Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. Late. Why?”

“I should— I should get going.”

“You’re sure? You can sleep here. I'll prepare the bed for you and take the sofa.”

Lizzie frowned quizzically and started to slowly rub her eyes in circles, as if mulling over his offer. After some seconds though, she protested weakly. “Henry, no… This is your home, you shouldn’t sleep on the sofa.”

“You’re my guest, Lizzie. Of course you get the most comfortable place to sleep.”  _And you’re not exactly suggesting we share the bed, are you?_

She grunted. “Hmm… I don’t know.” She rubbed her eyes again, then suddenly lifted up her head as if a realisation had just struck her.  “Where’s the loo?”

Henry gestured her the way. “Second door on the left.”

His was a small flat, with just one bedroom. Lizzie slowly got to her feet and dragged herself across the corridor. She spent a long time in the loo, in fact she spent so much time there Henry was sure she was sleeping on the toilet. Henry had enough time to clean their mess and get to his laptop to start working on the report François had requested. He was beginning to wonder whether he ought to go over and knock on the door when he finally heard it unlocking. He saw Lizzie crossing the corridor and going straight into the kitchen, walking on wonky legs like a zombie.  _Eh bien!_  He should go and check on her, he thought, as his agile fingers hit the keyboard word after word.

Before he could move from his place, though, Henry heard a loud crashing noise followed by a cry and an emphatically uttered curse. He hastened to the kitchen only to find a mayhem of pots, pans, a variety of kitchen appliances, all lying on the floor and Lizzie simply standing there, rubbing her forehead. Henry hurried to her side as quickly as he could.

“Lizzie! Lizzie, what happened?”

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

He stopped so abrupty he almost tripped over her. Henry blinked once, blinked twice. “Excuse me?”

“Why do you keep your kettle so high up there?” As she kept a hand pressed to her forehead, she angrily pointed to the cabinet shelf she had just knocked over.  _Is she having a laugh?_ No, she was looking at him with rather accusing eyes. “Why don’t you keep your kettle on the counter like everyone else does? Like, you know, a normal person.”

Henry scoffed. “I’m sorry Lizzie, but you could’ve used a stool or a chair, or better yet,  _you could’ve just called me_  to get it. Did you forget I was just in the other room?” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but obviously failed at keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Well, maybe I don’t need  _you_  to do everything for me. Has it ever crossed your mind that I can do things by myself?”

Henry rolled his eyes so hard he thought he might see his brain.  _For fuck’s sake_ , he couldn’t believe he was arguing with Lizzie in his kitchen at two in the morning. But Henry wasn’t so daft as to tell a woman to calm down, especially when she looked so out of sorts.

“Alright, miss independent. You come to the kitchen, absolutely knackered, and you expect everything to go splendid. Well, good luck with that.” 

For once Lizzie didn’t have a reply, she just kept moody and scowling as she bent down to pick up the things that had fallen from the cabinet. Henry let out a sigh but crouched down to help her anyways. As he put his things back on the shelf he eyed her from over his shoulder.

“Why did you even want the kettle for in the first place?”

Lizzie simply shrugged, a hand still pressed to her forehead. “I just wanted to make a cuppa. Something to wake me up before I went home.” Her lip pouting, she looked just like a sullen child.

Henry couldn’t resist smirking. “There’s coffee for that, you know.” He pointed to the Italian moka pot conveniently placed atop the stove, a pristine steel appliance that granted his coffee a strong distinctive flavour.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know I don’t drink coffee.”

All that conversation and Lizzie still kept the one hand on her forehead.

“Oh, sod it! Come here. Let me see it.” He stepped closer and took her head in his hands as she warily removed her own to reveal a red swollen bump. He tried to keep the touch of his fingers light on her hair as his thumbs skimmed over her temples. “What hit you?”

Lizzie shook her head slightly. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing. It’ll probably look purple tomorrow.”  

“You think so?” Lizzie looked at him through long golden lashes. She had beautiful and expressive doe-like eyes, the sort that could hide thunderstorms behind the guise of sunlit skies. Hazel, a shade between green and brown. Her eyelids batted softly, but her gaze held a silent question mark to it.

He dragged a thumb across her cheekbone, his voice low. “Are you alright?"

“Yeah.” Her reply came out just above a whisper, her chest rose and fell as if in cadence.

There was something… something different shimmering in her pupils at that moment, he surely couldn’t be wrong about that. _And she said she’s not with Charles anymore_ , the thought came to his mind abruptly and unbidden. Henry hesitantly let his left hand fall to cup her cheek, afraid he might scare her. He glanced at her lips, rosy and tempting and inviting. She was just so fucking beautiful all the time, it was downright maddening. It was driving him insane. He realised that somewhere deep down his sense of pride was hurt — he had never thought he would ever play the fool in love.

_Do it, you air-headed, useless git. Just do it._

“Well, this is awkward.”

Henry froze.  _Shite_. He looked back up to find Lizzie blinking uncomfortably. He instantly let go of her and straightened up.

“It is, isn’t it?” He leaned back against the counter, his hands sagged inside the pockets of his jeans. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out of it. Henry went to the fridge, if only to do something to fill up the silence stretching between them. “I’ll get you some ice.” He fumbled for words, anything. “You know… For the bump.”

Lizzie lowered herself to a chair and he handed her the ice rolled up in a towel. She thanked him with a half-smile and pressed it to her bump, but kept silent. 

“Your mother sent me an email a couple of days ago. She told me her hearing is coming up.” Henry was searching for any topic of conversation whatsoever, but Lizzie didn’t look much pleased by that.

“She did?”

Henry nodded. “She’s invited me to the hearing. Do you… Do you want me to go?”

“I— I mean... if you’re up for it. I don’t see why not.” 

An ominous silence fell on them again, so Henry reopened the fridge. “Are you hungry? I’ve got some of those red velvet cupcakes you like.” He had gone out to the nearest co-op the day before just to buy them specifically for Lizzie.

“There’s no need.” She blurted out, rising up from her seat and placing the towel on the table. “I should— I should just go home now.”

Henry turned back to her, closing the fridge door behind him. “Lizzie, are you fleeing from me?” He crossed his arms over his chest and faced her squarely. He was just tired of playing games with her.

She let out a not-so-genuine laugh as she left his kitchen. “What, me? Don’t be so absurd.”

Henry followed her across the room. “Yes, you. I’m not sure why, but you’re fleeing from me.”

As Lizzie bent over to grab her things, she let out an agonised, puff-like scoff. “I am. Not.”

“Good. Because if you are, and you forget something in your haste, I’m sorry but I’m not returning anything. You’ll have to come back here and get it yourself.”

“I can think of a worse fate than that." Her expression changed, and she gave him a deliciously devilish smile. "Seriously, Henry. You’ve got to step up your game. You’re severely lacking in imagination.”

Half in awe, he couldn’t think of a reply. It seemed it was her turn to leave him speechless. She got to the door and he hurried after her.

“I’m walking you home.” He announced, rather than asked her. His former flat was just a few blocks away from his current place, but he didn’t trust Lizzie to go back there alone, no matter how many times she said London was a safe city.

She only lifted an eyebrow at him. “If you insist.”

The way back to his former flat was short, their path punctuated by the myriad of pubs that populated the neighbourhood.  _The Red Lion, The Horn of Plenty, The Nag’s Head, The White Hart,_  all of them closed by the lateness of the hour. As they approached her building, Henry called her attention again.

“Lizzie, before I go I need to tell you something.”

She turned to him with an inquisitive eye, her keys in hand, and Henry summoned his most serious voice. "I, the Welsh dragon, vow not to destroy your home. Do not despair.”

She let out a silvery cascading laughter. “Shut your gob, silly!” She slapped his arm lightly, but straightened his sleeve right after with a smooth motion. “So… If I understood you correctly, I’m invited to visit your place again?”

“Uhm, yes. Yes, absolutely. And Rodrigo as well, of course. We can sort out another film night or something.”

“Right.” Her smile slowly died, and the silence that followed turned slightly awkward. “Well, good night to you.” As she turned to insert her keys in the door, Henry stepped back to leave.

“Good night, Lizzie.”

“Henry, wait!” He turned back, only to be surprised by a peck on his cheek, her hand leaning on his shoulder. “Thanks for walking me home.” 

He didn’t know how long he simply stood there, staring at her door after she had long vanished inside the building. He was grinning like a blinking idiot, the bloody fool. Down the street, drunk Londoners waddled their way home, brawled and shouted incomprehensible blasphemies. The sirens of the passing ambulances raged loudly off in the distance. Just a typical night in the city. Not for him, though. Not for him. The cold in the air nipped gently at his cheeks like the caress of a lover.


	7. Chapter 7

Lizzie wasn’t sure what had possessed her to accept Henry’s veiled invite for a day trip to Richmond. She only knew she had done it, and as a result, had spent an awfully long tube journey seated by his side, watching his Adam’s apple going up and down as he spoke simple pleasantries such as the day's nice weather. Under the harsh artificial light of the carriage Lizzie noticed what a great profile he had, especially with those high cheekbones of his. Not that she hadn’t noticed it before, not really. They were rather distracting at times. Sometimes she found herself zoning out just staring at him. _Embarrassing_. 

Their day trip had a purpose: Henry was house-hunting that day and had asked Lizzie to join him, alleging he could use a woman’s opinion on the matter if she so wished to help him. Yes,  _house-hunting_  in that economy, as if Lizzie didn’t think he was minted before. Over brunch Henry had casually mentioned he had some sort of inheritance, some money left by his father that her mother intended for him to receive after his graduation. It was April, final exams were coming up, he had a job offer waiting for him at his internship company. It seemed things were looking exceedingly good for Henry so he might as well start searching for a place. Everything was great, except...

“ _Richmond_?” Lizzie’s first reaction upon hearing his choice of borough was to repeat it back to him, like a badly trained parrot. “As in  _Richmond Upon Thames_ , zone 4?”

“Why, I thought I should give it a shot. They call it the _happy valley of London_ for a reason, don’t you think?” From behind his glasses, his eyes sparkled with excitement. It didn’t make Lizzie any less fidgety as she played with the rings on her fingers.

“But it’s just so... Far off.” She protested feebly. “I guess I just thought you would pick a place near the City, or even Canary Wharf. You know, near wherever it is that you’re going to work.”

“I don’t mind commuting, really. It’s only an eighteen-minute journey to Waterloo if a get the train. And I don’t exactly intend to spend my father’s money on a studio flat only so I could say I own property in Central London.”

It was not that his arguments lacked in any sound logic. Lizzie wasn’t even sure why she was opposed to the idea in the first place. The truth is that she hadn’t dared to spend much time thinking of how things would turn out after her flatmates graduated. She knew that Rodrigo wanted to apply for a master's degree in international relations, so he would hopefully stay in the UK for longer. But after all that time, for some obtuse reason, she hadn’t entertained the thought that Henry could possibly choose to live far from her. Hell, he might even go back to Wales or France for all she knew. Choosing Richmond was an actual improvement when she thought of all the possible scenarios. Still, it bothered her that she could get so worked up for such a small thing as Henry’s choice of borough.

In the gentle rocking of the tube carriage, Lizzie let her mind wander as the stations passed by her eyes. Earlier at brunch the former flatmates had gone down to the pub to celebrate the end of the semester. There were still all the exams to do and a month of revision to go, but the end of lectures and a bank holiday were more than enough reason to celebrate. Lizzie and Henry had managed to convince Rodrigo to finally have his first full English breakfast, something he had resisted so far. " _Your cuisine is far too bland for me_ " was something Rodrigo used to say more often than not. And truthfully, what was a black pudding compared to a morcilla? With each bite Rodrigo did the most peculiar of faces, ranging from pleasure to disgust to… odd amusement, it seemed. Neither Lizzie nor Henry felt particularly hungry at that time, so they decided to share a large order instead. Henry laid special claim to the portobello mushrooms. Lizzie got hold of the beans on toast their Spanish mate had so scornfully looked down on. Eating from the same plate, they could almost make a pretty picture.

 _A pretty picture_. What was it that her mum had said about them on the day of her hearing?  _“Don’t you look pretty together, the pair of you?”_  Mrs Beaufort had gone along for the occasion and had agreed with the statement, much to Lizzie’s chagrin. Before leaving, her mother took her aside to whisper  _“Really, you’re sleeping on this one, Lizzie!”_  But instead of taking an encouraging turn, her mother's words only soured her disposition towards the idea. What did her mum see in Henry anyway? Money? The prospect of a brilliant career much like her father’s once had been? For someone who had been accused of a gold-digger her whole married life, one would think she’d have a different approach other than pushing her daughter to the first white knight that came along. Had it been five hundred years ago, Lizzie would be happy to oblige to her mother’s idea without thinking twice. As a 21st century woman, though, her mother’s insistence did not sit well with her.

It didn’t help that the estate agent also thought them a couple during the house tour in Richmond Green.

“We say it’s a two-bedroom house, but you can easily turn the spare room into a third bedroom in case of guests or extra children. Have you two got kids already?”

Lizzie and Henry’s reaction was to simply exchange an awkward, panicking look. The agent must have confused one of her rings, or something. Lizzie decided to go for a tight-lipped smile and a simple answer. “Not yet.”

She assured Henry all was well with a look. It certainly wasn’t the first time something like that happened. Still, the petite woman went on and on about how Richmond was an idyllic place to raise kids, how the Green was full with cricketers in the summer, how the valley was full of canoe clubs paddling on the Thames. 

“We also have excellent schools just around the corner.” She painted the location with an almost countryside atmosphere, an earthly paradise.

At the end, the house tour narrowed down to a variety of technical details. Henry made relevant questions regarding electricity, security, maintenance charges and council taxing. Lizzie didn’t hear a word of it — she had her mind very far away from it all. She wandered to the back door leading to the garden entrance where a gentle breeze was blowing, bringing the fresh smell of the woods. Spring weather had always been particularly crazy in London, going from sunny skies to hailstorms in the short space of minutes. Not that day, though. Lizzie absorbed the air, the memories of the warm days of her childhood flashing behind her closed eyelids. When she had been little, Lizzie and her sisters had enjoyed many sunlit days in Richmond with their father. 

Right now, in that landscaped garden where busy bumblebees went about their work, she could picture a couple of kids running around the bushes, chasing a puppy or two. In her dreams she always saw a little boy who looked just like her father. She could plant white roses in those flower beds, she thought suddenly. Even some red roses — they deserved their place in the garden too. Lizzie could share many lazy afternoons there with a loved someone by her side.

“Lizzie.” A hand touched her between her shoulder blades, making her jump. “I was calling for you. It’s time to go.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t hear you.” She turned around to face him and his warm hand slowly fell from her back. She almost regretted doing so instead of just... leaning into the touch.

“Someone is zoning out much, I see?”

His eyes were positively quirky and blue, and a timid smile grew on her face, mirroring his own. “Maybe.” 

God, she felt her cheeks burning. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious that only seconds ago she was daydreaming about the house.  _His_   _future house_ , if anything else. Something Lizzie knew she had no right to do at all.

Yet Henry seemed oblivious enough. “Come, now. We should say goodbye to the agent.”

They left Sheen Road and took the path back to the station. Richmond Green was very close to the town centre, making it a great location next to the array of shops and high-end restaurants. That Sunday the streets were crowded with day trippers and costumers busy about their errands.  _It suits him_ , Lizzie thought, almost bitterly. Richmond had a posh air to it, but it was not anywhere near as conceited as Kensington or Chelsea. She could definitely picture Henry moving there. Lizzie sensed a sickening scent of early nostalgia in the air, or maybe it was just the sweetness coming from the hundreds of daffodils that lined up the streets that time of the year. 

She took a deep breath and worked up the nerve to put an end to her misery. With a detached voice, she asked Henry whether or not he was going to buy the house.

“Not for now, at least.” He said, after a few seconds of silence. “I’ve still got a lot to look into before I can make an important decision like that. But I certainly liked the neighbourhood." He smiled. "I could see myself living here. I’ll be adding it to my five-year plan.”

Lizzie felt something akin to relief washing over her, but she disguised her smile by taking a mocking tone. “You’ve got a five-year plan? Really?” She purposely raised her eyebrows. In fact, she wasn’t even surprised. It was such a Henry thing to have a long plan.

He raised his chin, taking a prideful stance. “Like every responsible adult, yes. I do, missy.”

“I wish I were more... like you. You know, disciplined or— I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I mean, look at you! You’ve got a job already!”

“I have a job  _offer,_  which is not at all the same thing. And just because I have one it doesn’t mean it’s my dream job. It doesn’t mean it’s what I would like to do for my whole life.” He paused and turned a curious gaze to her. “What do  _you_  want to do after you graduate?”

“I’ve thought...” She felt shrieking under his gaze, so she decided to look at random people passing on the street instead. “I’ve thought about working in education. It was not what I first had in mind, but it sort of feels right at the moment. It’s just an option, though. Nothing's certain.”

Lizzie had always been told she was good with children. Perhaps she had acquired some skills looking after her young sisters Anne, Catherine and little Bridget. Even Cecily, who was just a few years younger than herself. She had always felt like the responsible big sister when it came to her, much to Cecily’s annoyance.

Lizzie turned her eyes back to Henry and saw that he was listening with a very attentive expression. She held her breath to hear his opinion, but Henry simply blinked at her. “Lizzie, there are only two certain things in this life: death and taxes." 

Her shoulders shook with a soft chuckle, and she felt like relaxing again. Henry went on. "You know what you want to do. It sounds like a plan to me.”

“Blimey, no! It’s not a plan per se." She laughed at the absurdity of that sentence. "I don’t have my shit together like you.” 

“You think I’ve got my shit together, do you?” 

“Well, you certainly look like you do!”

Henry winked at her in that way of his. “Lizzie, it’s all about looking the part. Never let them see your weaknesses. That’s what my uncle always said to me.”

“Them _who_ , though?”

He made a vague gesture with his hands. “Competition.”

Lizzie let out a delighted laugh, her steps bringing her path closer to his. It was at that moment that she realised she didn’t feel like going home so soon. She asked him whether he had anything to do later that day. She tensed, hoping he wouldn’t take it the wrong way. But Henry only eyed her curiously.

“Nothing much. You?”

Good. It was so very rare of him to have spare time. They always had to drag him along to social events. So thus Lizzie proceeded on her plan to convince him to go to Richmond Park and watch the deer.

“It’s like hunting... minus the animal-killing part and the gore, of course.” It was a favourite pastime of hers during her childhood. Telling Henry it was obligatory to go there on his first visit to Richmond seemed to close the deal.

They found a rental shop to hire a pair of bikes and finally, after some delay and some grub, off they made their way to Richmond park. The cycle paths took them across fresh fields, under trees full of bare branches giving birth to green leaflets. All around them, life was growing back with a vengeance. It was not hard to find the deer — fallow bucks and does in particular were not shy of human presence. They got off from their bikes to approach the animals, but they couldn’t get to the deer. Many people trying to take pictures blocked their way, crowded as the park was on a Sunday afternoon. So Henry and Lizzie kept walking, taking their bikes along the grassy fields to find animals elsewhere. They stopped at a hill with a view to London, named after some ancient king of yore. The exercise seemed to have a good effect on Henry. Lizzie had never seen him looking so peaceful.

“Richmond does good to you.” She remarked, making him turn his eyes to her. “Should I start calling you _Monsieur le Comte de Richmond_ from now on?”

Henry gave her a wolfish smile. “Lizzie, please. Your grace will do.”

“Your grace?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “What are you now? A duke, a king?”

“King of England, of course.”

Lizzie wrinkled her nose at him. “I don’t think old Queen Liz is going to be very pleased to hear it. Nor her son, or her grandson, or her great-grandson for that matter. What if they call you usurper?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ll have a great PR team for that.”

_Of course._

“Well, if you’re going to be king I’ll be queen as well. You can start calling me...” She made a dramatic pause and curtsied with a graceful motion. “Madame la Reine de France!”

Except Henry didn’t find it funny. His face turned serious and he immediately turned away from her. “I’m not calling you Queen of France.” He began walking again, tugging his bike along. Lizzie hurried after him and laid a hand on the handlebar to make him stop.

“Why not?”

Her eyes challenged him, dared him to tell her his reason. Henry only frowned and averted her gaze. As he hesitated still, Lizzie repeated her question. Eventually he let out a sigh and looked at her again. “For one, the French would never accept it. In case you didn’t know, they’re not exactly pro-monarchy.”

“Of course not! But hypothetically speaking, I don’t see any other kingdom to suit me. Do you?”

“I could...” He looked down, sliding a foot on the grass. “I could share England with you... If you wanted.”

“You? Sharing the rule? I’m not familiar with the concept.” She took a teasing tone to dissipate the awkwardness. “We both know you won’t be sharing anything, so you can stop lying.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I probably wouldn’t.” He looked back at her and smiled again. Not a completely kind smile. “But you wouldn’t mind it, would you? Leaving the boring stuff to me, and you get the charities and the galas. Just admit you’d love that.”

Lizzie gaped at him. The _nerve_ he had for speaking such! Even if he thought so,  _even if it were_ _true_ , he had no right to say it aloud. “You're an insufferable git sometimes, did you know that?”

His eyes shone with a harsh light, mischievous. “Yes, I can be a bit of an arse. But you like me that way, so what’s your point?”

“You— you bastard! I absolutely do not—”

Henry began laughing so hard he was seized by a coughing fit. His coughing only increased, making him bend over and almost fold himself in two. Lizzie clutched his arm to shake him, forgetting that only a minute ago she was glaring at him.

“Henry! Henry, what is it?”

"What?" He managed to say between two coughs.

“You’re coughing.” A rather matter-of-fact statement, but it was not the first time she had seen him suffer a fit lately. “Henry, have you been smoking again?”

He cleared his throat as his coughing bout subdued. “No, Lizzie. I told you I’ve quit.” In a hushed and quicker voice, though, he added. “I only ever have one or two fags on occasion.”

“WHAT?”

“Jesus Christ, Lizzie! It’s nothing. It’s probably hay fever.”

“I’m not joking, Henry! You’ve got to see your GP. Did you know that young people can have lung cancer too?”

The thought terrified her. Her father had died from a liver condition after a lifetime of bad drinking and eating habits. Henry wasn’t anywhere near as stout as her father had been. Lizzie doubted his health could be as enduring.

Henry still looked perplexed at her, like he didn’t understand her concern. She squeezed his arm harder. "Promise me you’ll see your GP."

He looked at a point over her shoulder. “What’s that?”

She turned around to see a white-spotted fawn grazing some feet away. Lizzie immediately landed her bike on the grass and tried to approach the calf as silently and as carefully as her feet took her. She beckoned Henry forward, but he lingered behind. “Lizzie, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“It’s a miracle baby, Henry! They’re usually not born till late spring. We have to see it!” Henry let out a resigned sigh but followed her anyway, he too taking careful steps to approach the calf. Lizzie couldn’t believe she was about to pet a fawn. Her heart ringed loudly in her ears, she could taste excitement at the tip of her tongue. It was then that she saw it, the mother. That was no fallow deer. It was a large red hind, menacing and monstrous, vapour coming out of its nostrils. It scraped the hooves on the ground, ready to charge.

Lizzie took Henry’s hand, her voice hollow. “We have to go back. Now.”

“What about the bikes?”

The hind let out a long guttural growl. “Forget them! Just run! Run, you fool!” 

She yanked him along and sprinted as fast as she could. She didn’t look back to see if the mother was following them, but she could hear it galloping behind. At her side Henry muttered a litany of  _fucks_ as they ran. They raced for a few meters before they made a turn at a thick patch of trees and hid behind a trunk, shoulder to shoulder. They were both breathless and disarranged then, panting. Lizzie’s hair was all over her face; Henry’s glasses were slipping off his face. Her hand, the one holding his fingers, was sticky with sweat. He let go of that hand.

“Shit, Lizzie! We’re never doing this again! The things I do for you, I swear—"

“Shhh! It could hear us.” 

Lizzie had never seen Henry so distraught. He tried to put his hair strands in order with a nervous hand, but it clearly wasn’t working. He gave up with a low grunt. “This shit is serious, Lizzie! We could have died, we could have been trampled, gored to death—”

“Shhh!” She repeated, more forcefully this time. To begin with, the hind didn’t even have antlers. But yes, there could be a stag nearby waiting to attack.

Lizzie scooted a bit to the side and stuck her prying head to look out for the red hind. Just like magic, it was nowhere near sight. She turned back to Henry and met his expecting gaze. “It’s gone.”

The sentence hung in the air, both of them not quite believing it. They stood frozen for a couple of seconds, staring at each other, chests heaving. They both broke into a wide grin then. Relief flooded over them and they shared a loud laugh like giddy idiots. She meant to move and hug him — she was half-way into his arms when he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers in a quick kiss. She fell a step back and disentangled from his embrace. 

“That was unexpected!”

Henry yanked the glasses off his face. “Would you please shut up every time I try to kiss you?”

 _What?_ She meant to ask him, but he drew her to him again and covered her mouth with his. Surprisingly enough, she found herself pressing closer to him. He seized her by the waist, straightening her in his arms, and she circled her own around his shoulders. He smelled like the sharp scent of the woods mixed with his French cologne. The stubble on his jaw tickled her, not unpleasantly, and she made a low hum on the back of her throat when he sucked on her bottom lip. His glasses slid off his hand and hit the ground behind her with a soft thud as he cupped her cheek, deepening the kiss. As much as Lizzie didn’t want to admit it, Henry definitely knew what he was doing. He slid his tongue inside her mouth for a proper snog, and she lost track of time. She could only think of the weight of his hand on the small of her back, the movements of his lips on hers. He ended the kiss by gently cradling her head, placing a final peck on her lips.

They parted, but a light buzz still ringed inside her head as she tried to process what had just happened. Henry, on the contrary, looked perfectly untroubled with a smirk on his face. He bent down to pick up his glasses and calmly wiped them on his shirt, unfazed. “I should’ve done it sooner.” Try as she might, Lizzie couldn't find the words to contradict him.

A cold swirling wind swept on them. The light fell across the land in purple and orange hues. Night was fast approaching.

“Come, Lizzie.” He took her by the hand. “Let’s go home.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is fairly dialogue heavy. Caution: strong language ahead.

_Henry, London Borough of Camden, 2:04 p.m._

 

One could think of few things better than spending a bank holiday in North London. The sun was out, the birds were singing. The sound of the rustling leaves coming from the Heath was carried along by a gentle breeze sweeping down on Hampstead Village — that posh neighbourhood, known as the new frog valley of London, where French pâtisseries and crêperies endowed the air with the richest of flavours, was home to François Monfort.

In one of the large Edwardian houses that populated the neighbourhood, Henry Tudor attended his boss’s garden party garbed with his best bottom-up and armed with a politely trained smile on his face. It was a great chance to properly catch up with his co-workers and improve his networking skills. Except Henry would rather be anywhere else. Well, not really anywhere else. Certainly not with  _anyone_. He had a very specific person in his mind. 

For what felt like the hundredth time, he unlocked his mobile screen to look at her text: 

 

> **Lizzie**
> 
> Can we meet today at 7? Spoons would be nice x

Just ten simple words. Not unlike with everything else in his life, Henry found himself overanalysing that line of text. She had ended it with a single ‘x’ instead of a double… Not the most affectionate way to end a text, one could say. Their goodbye the previous day had been awkward enough, yes, but she hadn’t shied away from his embrace. Granted, when walking Lizzie to her flat, she had hurried inside the building maybe a bit too fast for his liking.

But her invite to the local Wetherspoons pub was a good sign, wasn’t it? A familiar feeling gnawing at his insides, Henry started to think he might have miscalculated his move. Maybe he should have given her more time… He instinctively touched the pocket where he kept the gift he had bought her ages ago: [a gold necklace, paired with a rose pendant](https://img1.etsystatic.com/184/0/12991430/il_570xN.1264050487_ndwj.jpg). He had bought it as a Christmas present, only at the time he hadn’t found the courage to give her.

“Tudor, are you coming or not? We’ll be running out of gravy soon.”

“Yeah, bruv! Just grab your plate and get in the bloody queue!”

Henry looked up to find his co-workers Ed and Tom waiting for him, both mildly annoyed at his delay. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

His colleagues were right to worry about the gravy, though; the queue for the buffet table was incredibly long. It looked like everyone who worked for the company had been invited to the party. The majority of the employees were EU nationals, but Henry’s fellow Brits were increasing numbers every day.

“Oh shit, is that Jane from HR?” Tom exclaimed suddenly. “I’ve gotta go talk to her. Hold my place for a sec, will you?”

A cocktail cooling in hand, Henry watched Tom approach the HR girl with the characteristic sleazy smile he put on whenever he tried to chat up a girl. Thomas Grey, simply known around the office as Tom, looked just like a generic Tom was supposed to look. Small round eyes, rosy face, neither tall nor short. Every Brit knew at least one generic Tom.

“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend or something?” Henry turned to ask his other colleague, Edward Woodville. He bore the same last name as Lizzie’s mother, which sometimes made Henry wonder whether they were distantly related or if it was all just coincidence.

“Last time I checked, he had a fiancée.” Henry let out a small  _oh_ , taking a sip from his glass. Ed simply shrugged. “You know how Tom is. Always… fooling around.” He turned his gaze to Henry. “What about you? What were you doing back there on your phone? Not bad news, I hope.”

“No, not bad news. Just… me being paranoid, I reckon.”

Ed nodded, turning to scan the rest of the party. “Do you… want to talk about it… maybe?”

“Nah, mate. I’m fine.” Henry looked down at his glass, shaking the ice cubes. The liquid quivered with circular vibrations. Some unspoken rules between men were just not simply broken.

“Cool.”

“Cool.” Henry repeated, as if those were not his worries they were just trying to discuss.  _Cool._

A comfortable silence settled over them, lasting no longer than Tom’s return. Looking triumphant, Tom got back just in time before the queue could move too far. “I did it! I got her number! See, I told you I would—”

“Well, well, well! Who do we have here?”

They spun around to find Pierre Landais, François’ assistant. He sported a mocking smile and an awfully tacky tie as he usually was wont to do. He wasn’t particularly popular among the employees, not even the EU nationals working for the firm. As the second in command, though, Landais was merely tolerated. Henry let out a deep sigh, bracing himself for what was coming.  _Here we go._

“And do my eyes deceive me or it is Henry Tudor,  _the absolute ledge!_ ” The Frenchman laughed, patting his shoulder. “Isn’t it how you lads say it? _Absolute ledge?_ ”

_Don’t murder stare. Don’t murder stare. You’ve got this. Don’t murder stare. Don’t murder stare—_

His colleagues shook their heads, barely concealing their contempt.

“It’s not… It’s not really…”

“It’s not how we say it.”

Landais was thoroughly amused, though. “Why not? This guy— this guy here, I’m telling you. This guy right here is a legend. The best intern we've ever had. Go ask François. N’est-ce pas, Tudor?” Landais spoke his last name with a strong accent dripping with sarcasm. It all clearly meant:  _aren’t you a proper boss’s pet?_

Henry squinted his eyes at him, fake smiling. “Thank you, Landais. I only try my very best. But clearly, you already know that for sure.” Just the previous month, Henry had checked a couple of funny reports, counts not matching the system. The error couldn’t be tracked at the time, but Henry had a feeling Landais hadn’t been much happy since then.

Landais simply blinked at him for some seconds before turning his eyes to his co-workers. “Well, forgive me for trying to blend in with you, heh. You know, after Brexit one does fear about losing his job. No one is safe! Who knows who could be next!” He raised his glass of champagne as a way of goodbye and gave them an ugly smirk, a motion that rendered his face even more punchable. He left them to go straight to the casserole dish stand, jumping the queue and receiving some silent head shakes along the way.

“Connard.” Henry muttered under his breath, gulping down the rest of his cocktail. He could assign a long list of names to that bastard. It was a special pastime of his to get colourful with his French insults:  _enfoiré, abruti, crevard_ , quickly turning into  _trou du cul, face de rat, sac à vin, crétin des Alpes, ironie de la création_ … It was truly a great pity he could not voice his thoughts with so many French speakers around.

His co-workers beside him, though, were not so subtle.

“Dickhead.”

“Fucking wanker.”

Henry served himself a couple of golden Yorkshire puddings, a recent favourite dish of his. “Don’t mind him. Landais is just trying to scare me. Honestly, I couldn’t be arsed to care.”

“But maybe you should,” Ed said, stuffing his plate with roasted vegetables. “Aren’t you graduating in a few month’s time?”

“Hopefully, yes.”

“It’d be nice to have a job then, don’t you think?”

Henry fell silent at that.  _It would be nice to have a job_. That was something he had to remind himself every time frustration got the better of him, like a mantra. It would be nice to have a job.

The hours dragged, the minutes stretched. Taking rounds around the garden to chitchat with his colleagues was like a personal nightmare come alive. The weather! Where would they all be if not for that particular topic of conversation? Politics? No, not in such polite society. Switch to French. Switch to English. Switch to French again. François’ relatives were there too, which meant of course even more fake smiling, fake listening, enthusiastically nodding his head and feigning interest in the most tedious things. The number of times he had to say _“how do you do?”_ that day just couldn’t be measured.

Henry would check his watch every now and then.  _Shit, only five minutes since last time_. It was at that rather depressing moment that Tom pulled out a cigarette pack. “Time for a break. Are you coming, Tudor?”

Ed didn’t smoke, though he would sometimes join them during coffee break. Every time, though, he would complain the smoke followed him around. Henry himself as he was trying to quit gradually stopped joining Tom for a drag.

Henry looked at the pack Tom was shaking in his hand. They were L&B, a popular brand, but too chavvy for Henry’s taste. He forcefully willed himself to look away. “No, thank you. I’ve quit.” He rubbed the nicotine patch beneath his shirt, placed just above his elbow. He knew the day would be stressful enough, so he had to come prepared.

“What, Tudor! Seriously?“

Ed congratulated him by clapping. “That’s the spirit. Good for you, Henry. ”

“Come on, mate! One fag is not gonna kill you.”

Tom extended a cigarette to Henry, nimbly holding it between his fingers, but Henry turned it down. “I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.” He had promised other things as well, like getting an appointment with his GP. As if Henry had enough time for all that.

By now Tom was lighting up his cigarette. “So what now? You promised your mum you’d stop smoking, is that it? Nancy boy doesn’t want to disappoint his mum?”

“Not my mum, you blinking idiot.” It was impossible not to sound defensive. “I promised a friend.”

“A friend?”

“A girl…friend.”

“Oooh, _a girlfriend_. Ed, do you believe this fucker? He never tells us anything.”

Edward waggled his eyebrows. “Is it that girl you fancy, Lizzie? Tom, he won’t say a thing but he’s mentioned her name several times.”

“Lizzie, eh?” Tom took a long drag and let it out in a silvery grey cloud. “Yes, I do recall. Have you shagged her yet?”

Henry shot him a deadly, fulminating stare. “That’s none of your bloody business.”

Tom turned to Edward. “I take it as a no.”

Ed suppressed a laugh, but Henry wasn’t amused. "Why don’t you just fuck off, Tom?”

“Calm down, bruv.“ Tom raised his palms in self-defence. "I was just taking the piss. What else are friends for these days?”

Henry wouldn’t exactly call him a friend — co-worker, associate, colleague, work fellow, ally, a little dot in his social network scheme, but certainly not _friend_. “I appreciate your interest in my love life. But rest assured, I know how to handle myself.”

Tom didn’t take the hint. "You’re really serious about that girl, eh?”

Henry’s best fake smile flashed through gritted teeth and squinted eyes. “Unlike some, I don’t fool around.”

Tom frowned quizzically, as if trying to decide whether that was a veiled insult or not. Thankfully François came calling before the air turned too foul. “Boys! Ed, Tom, Henri! We’re taking a group picture. Come, all of you!”

Henry had thought the party couldn’t get any worse.

 

* * *

 

_Lizzie, City of Westminster, 6:53 p.m._

 

A girl sitting by herself was always a sorry sight no matter the place, that much she had been told. Some lessons took longer to unlearn, so maybe that was why Lizzie was so restless in her seat: one minute fidgeting with the rings on her fingers, the next gripping the menu tight in her hands. It was her own fault, actually, to have chosen the local Wetherspoons to meet him. It was too familiar, too public a place to talk to him. Her anxiousness grew from a knot in her throat and spread to the tips of her toenails like a rope stretched too tight.

From her place at the table, Lizzie watched various groups of friends ordering their rounds. She tried to distract herself by inventing lives for each men. The short one with the funny hat was an architect, she decided. The loudest of them, she kept on musing, was actually the saddest, his hollering and chattering only a mask to hide his— No, it wasn’t working. Her rambling mind kept trailing back to her own doubts and worries. No, it was all entirely her own fault. She didn’t need to get there so early in advance. Henry was halfway across town and chances were he wouldn’t get to the pub in time.

She took another sip of her pint of cider, an overly sweet Strongbow Dark Fruit. Lizzie had never been one for drinking. She had always been too prim, too proper. A general distaste for beer and a lack of aptitude to handle hard liquor made it all too easy for her to rely solely on sugary booze. But regular cider was something a 16 year-old might pick when illegally drinking with her mates in the park. Lizzie, on the other hand, liked to think a Dark Fruit was a much classier option with its rich royal purple liquid gracing her taste buds.

She kept thinking of what Cecily had said during their last facetime session. Lizzie had volunteered to help her sister improve her grades — she vowed she could help her with anything, anything but maths. But Henry could help her with that, Lizzie reckoned. She knew he would if she only asked him nicely enough. Cecily had been all too grateful for the help, but when confronted about her seeing a particular boy while still grounded, Cecily had plunged into a sullen mood. 

> “Whoever said I can’t see him?”
> 
> “Well, for one, mum said that.”
> 
> “Lizzie, have you thought that mum is not our boss? Do you let her rule your love life? Do you let her pick your boyfriends for you? No, I don’t think so. I’m sure you're more than capable of thinking for yourself. So why should she have a say in who I date and who I don’t?”

That hit uncomfortably close to home. Lizzie looked down at her pint glass. She was on her second pint already. God, what was she thinking? She pushed it away while she still had a clear mind. She certainly wouldn’t like Henry to see her tipsy. It was at that moment that she saw a familiar face walking the place. Lizzie ducked her head, tried to hide her face behind the menu as she realised who it was: her ex-boyfriend, Charles. It was a futile action though, for he had already seen her and was coming her way.

Lizzie let go of the menu, but kept her eyes focused on the ground, refusing to acknowledge him. Yet the feet planted in front of her table weren’t going anywhere, it seemed. Lizzie clutched the edge of the table and slowly raised her eyes.

“Chérie, I haven’t seen you in a long time.” His dark hair slicked to one side, a carefree smile dancing on his lips, and sporting a Paris Saint-German jersey, Charles took the chair opposite hers. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

“I’m not by myself.” She managed to croak out. “I’m waiting for someone.” Her reply was brief, almost rude, but Lizzie had no intention to be polite to him. He surely hadn’t been considerate of her feelings when they were together.

Something like aggravation flickered in his face before he dismissed it with a scoff. “Waiting for someone? Like what, like a date?”

“Like— Well, I’m…” Was it a date? “It's— It’s Henry! I’m waiting for Henry.”

“Oh!” He chuckled, probably relieved. Lizzie couldn’t believe it had taken her so long to see how pretentious he looked with that smug smile of his. “Henry Tudor, isn’t it? We’ve had some classes together. Your roommate.”

“He’s my former  _flatmate_ , as I’ve told you well before.” At the time of Henry’s moving out, Lizzie had repetitively whinged about it to Charles. Lizzie had always suspected he hadn’t listened to any of her grievances; now she had complete proof.

“Yes, yes, ma chérie. I’m sure you did.” Charles made a vague dismissive gesture with his hands, his tone patronising.

 _I am not your chérie_ , she thought bitterly. Lizzie wanted to erase that smile from his face, wanted to slap him to see if it went away. If she flung her pint into his face would that be enough? Would it be enough to see it soaking into his expensive football jersey?

“Anyways.” He started again, lounging too comfortably on his chair. “I don’t know why you’re still hanging out with him. Tudor is such a huge nerd.”

“Don’t talk of him like that!” She snapped. “You don’t know him.”

Charles frowned, slightly amused. Maybe she had sounded a bit too defensive for his taste. “Wow. PMS is a bitch, hein?”

Lizzie looked straight at him. She didn’t flinch from his gaze — she took all in, saw all of him. His dark eyes, his long nose, his wormy lips. She tried to find what had caught her attention before. Maybe, just maybe, it had been that overbearing sense of confidence he exuded through every pore of his being. Only now she knew it wasn’t confidence, no, it was an absurdly heightened arrogance. Suddenly she felt nothing towards him anymore. Neither love nor hate. Neither affection nor contempt. Nothing at all.

“It was great chatting with you, Charles.” She stated with an even voice. “But I think you should leave now.”

Charles made no intention to move. “What, leave? Ma chérie, we haven’t even started.”

He moved to grab her wrist, but she pulled her hands into her lap before he could do so. "Just. Leave.”

Charles looked at a point behind her. “Tudor! We were just talking about you.”

Lizzie turned around to see a newly-arrived Henry. If he was in any way displeased by seeing Charles at her table, he didn’t show any of it. On the contrary, he looked every bit dignified. His hair was neatly combed, his button-up shirt complemented his Burberry tailored jacked wonderfully. He was wearing his contacts that day, looking every inch sharp and professional.

“Lizzie.” He greeted her with a warm smile, taking the seat beside hers to wrap an arm around her waist, going in for an open mouth kiss. For a moment Lizzie laid back and enjoyed his kiss, almost forgetting that they weren’t alone.

“Rôôôôh! C'est quoi ce bordel là?!” Charles sounded a mixture of gobsmacked and furious.

Pulling back, Henry acted like he did not see him before. “Oh, Charles. Hello there.” Henry said simply, almost like acknowledging his presence was an afterthought.

Charles looked from Henry to Lizzie, eyes bulging. “Tu te fous de moi?”

Lizzie carefully replied, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “Charles, it’s been months since we—”

“You were fucking behind my back, that’s what you were doing! Oh I see it now. I see it well enough.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but Henry stopped her by landing a hand atop hers, ceasing her fidgeting. "Lizzie, you don’t owe him any explanation whatsoever.”

“I know, but people are looking.”

“All this time!” Charles kept raving, his accent getting thicker by the minute. “And oh my god, you were roommates!”

”Flatmates!” Their voices corrected him in unison.

"A slut, Lizzie! That’s what you are!” Charles smacked down a hand on the table.

It was at that moment that Henry grabbed him by the shirt, pulling Charles across the table to face him. “That’s enough.” His voice was cold, perfectly controlled. “You will remove yourself from this table and quietly fuck off. Do you understand?” Charles, caught by surprise, could only stare at him. “Do you understand me?” Henry released him with a sneer. “Pauvre con.”

Charles’ face went quickly from white to purple. “Ta gueule!” He stood up, pushing his chair back noisily across the floor.

The whole pub watched as Henry slowly stood up from his place. Lizzie tried to grasp his hand to stop him. “Henry, don’t.” She murmured, but Henry had already disentangled from her grip and made his way around the table.

“Ça commence a me gaver là, putain.”

“Ah carrément?” Charles scoffed, giving him a shove.

“Oui, carrément.” Henry pushed him back. Both men grabbed each other’s by the collar.

It was a matter of seconds. Lizzie rushed to get between them, struggled to pull them apart before they came to blows. “Stop it! Stop it! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Take that outside!” Someone shouted at them.

 _Why are men so bloody stupid?_ They were acting like she was some sort of property to be fought over. Henry had the grace to look somewhat ashamed, but Charles still looked furious. Thankfully, someone had called the security guard. “Gentlemen, I'll have to ask you to leave.”

“ _I’m_ leaving. He can stay.” Henry carded his fingers through his hair, putting his clothes back in order. “Come, Lizzie.” He took her by the hand, pulling her along. She managed to pick her purse and jacket before she was half-dragged to the exit door.

Charles still had some in him to bite back. “Yes, flee like the coward you are! Dégage, Tudor! Dégage!”

It didn’t matter what Charles could say, Henry was still the one who left the place with his arm wrapped around the girl. Henry mockingly waved to him before they crossed the door, but Lizzie could only feel her cheeks burning. She would never be able to step inside that pub again. They had just walked past the corner when she pushed Henry away.

“Why did you do that?”

“Excuse me?” He was still jumpy from his altercation with Charles.

“Why did you have to make such a scene?”

“ _I_  made a scene?” Henry scoffed, sarcasm coming out. “Sorry, were you trying to make up with Charles back there? Did I interrupt anything?”

“You know I was not! Don’t even try to play that card. The point is you made it look like we’re a thing. We’re not a thing! We’re not even together!”

At that Henry lowered his head, as if taking a blow. He blinked for a second before replying. “Well, thanks for telling me now. When were you planning to tell me, perchance? Today? Next week? Maybe after I brought you a wedding ring?”

“See, that’s not how a relationship works! You don’t get to decide what we do, what we are, before we can talk things through. Just because we kissed that one time—”

“By that one time you mean  _yesterday._ ”

“—That doesn’t mean we are together. It doesn’t mean I owe anything.”

“Owe me? What sort of nonsense is this now?”

“Look, Henry.” She ran a hand through her long hair, searching for the right words. “I am not ungrateful. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for offering help when my family was in trouble. I truly do! But you don’t get to decide our relationship. I cannot repay you like that.”

“Lizzie, for God’s sake!” He rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, so so very tired. “I’m not trying to buy you!” His voice took a quiet turn then, almost tender. “Don’t you see that everything I do, I do because I care about you?”

She shook her head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” He looked befuddled, almost hurt.

She looked away. “Don’t come at me like that.”  _Don’t be soft now, or you’ll make me soft too._  “What of what  _I_  want? What  _I_  think, what  _I_  feel? I’d like to have a voice in this too!”

“Of course, Lizzie! But you do!”

“I don’t want it to be like that. Like, like— Like I’m paying you back a favour.”

“But you’re not! I’m not asking for payment!”

“It doesn’t matter 'cause that’s what it looks like to people.”

He caught her wrists then and brought them to his chest, pulling her to him. They were both short of breath, chests heaving. He didn’t kiss her, but she almost wished him to. From that close proximity it was almost unbearable to look at him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses — there was nothing between her and his agitated eyes. They were piercing and blue, and terrible to face.

“Lizzie, it’s simple.” He said, very quietly. “Do you want me or not?”

“I…” She faltered. Suddenly it was too difficult to breathe.

“Stop with the mixed signals for once. Do you want me…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or not?”

“I…” She searched for a word, anything. “I don’t know.”

He released her then, splaying his hands like she'd just burned him. He stepped back, his expression unreadable.

“Henry?”

He pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into one of her hands. She opened it to find a delicate gold necklace, a pendant carefully crafted in the shape of a rose. “What… what is this?”

“A gift. I've got no use for it.”

Lizzie felt her eyes swarming with unshed tears. She looked up only to find his back to her. Henry was steadily walking away.  _He is leaving me_ , the realisation struck her like a dagger. “Henry! Henry, where are you going?”

He didn’t reply. She wasn’t even sure he had listened to her. Lizzie watched as he descended the stairs to the tube station. He wasn’t going back to his flat, that much was clear. He didn’t need to take the tube for that.

“Henry!” She called him one last time.

She wouldn’t run after him. Not her, not while people passing by could see her in such an undignified state. She did the right thing, so why did it feel like the worst decision she had ever made? The coldness of the night suddenly crept into her bones. She wrapped herself tight in her jacket, a shiver ran down her spine. She was left alone on that street, alone with her thoughts and the words she should never have said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main theme of this chapter is Henry dealing with the French presence in his life. I realised, among other things, that the readers needed a proper ending for Charles' storyline. We won't be dealing with his character no further, except maybe in passing.  
> P.S.: if Pierre Landais wasn't devilish enough for you, he is a queue jumper. Just let that sink in.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the casual reader that got this far: thank you for sticking with me. This is the last chapter before our season finale.
> 
> *DISCLAIMER* None of the song lyrics belong to me.

_April was the cruelest month_ , but she had never felt it so keenly before. Her bedroom bathed in sultry light, the curtains filtering the sunbeams, Lizzie opened the windowpanes to look at the passers-by walking on the street. The sun was up again, and another day prepared for work and silence.

Not the type of silence found in quiet strolls taken beneath the scrawny branches of winter trees. No, but the tedious, everlasting silence hanging heavily between textbooks and libraries while life outside grew greener and greener each day. The urge to go out on town had never felt so tempting now that she was bound to a desk in hopes of memorising every little tiny detail she had been taught across two semesters. The education system was hardly fair on the students.

She leaned out the window, her morning apple in hand. Down below people came and went like busy bees.  _Were these streets always so full with children? Were these streets ever so crowded?_  Lizzie mulled unhappily while she bit on her apple. It must have been the time of the year. A few feet apart, on her bed, her mobile buzzed with yet another text from Katie and Joan.    

> **Joan**
> 
> Just arrived in Regent's Park  
>  Are you coming?  
>  We brought a picnic basket xx

Lizzie resigned herself to a heavy sigh and a sorrowful reply.  

> **Lizzie**
> 
> Sorry, I can't.  
>  I've still got two chapters to finish today.  
>  But have fun you two xx

As much as life outside called to her, Lizzie felt undeserving of a picnic. Her fingers hovered above the mobile screen, frozen in air. Her contacts list showed the name of a  _Henry T._ , the picture one she herself had cropped out from a group photo. The mention of Regent's Park had reminded her of [one particular afternoon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11977353/chapters/27088938), autumn leaves, late roses and... _him_. The last message he had sent to her dated from the 2nd of April.   

> **Henry T.**
> 
> Spoons will be perfect. 7 it is then. x

Lizzie had not heard from him since. All that was left was a long, uncomfortable, unyielding silence. Rodrigo too had noticed his absence. 

 _"Is Tudor always so busy now? He never drops by anymore."_ That was his simple remark on the subject, and yet kindly, as if sensing there was something wrong, his only one. Her _"How could I know?"_  was met with a sad and sympathetic look, like the ones bestowed on patients going through a difficult surgery. Rodrigo, him too, had not talked about it since.

As much as she tried to hide it, the truth was that she missed Henry. She missed watching his smug, mischievous smirk unfold.She missed hearing his voice, his quips, that sarcasm that often said everything she thought but was too polite to admit. She missed looking at him, at those eyes that absorbed it all — that hunger that shone through to enquire of all things, to take possession of all things. She missed the thrill of being under that gaze, disarmed in the face of a danger she longed to know. A burning desire to just melt into him.

And yet, she would not text Henry. She had thought of hundreds of things she could say to him. She had typed and erased, typed and erased. But what should she say after all? There had been nothing going on between them before. She wasn't even sure she should say something in the first place. Her eyes lingered on the necklace he gave her, that expensive gift laying on her nightstand. She should at least return it.

A wild frenzy took over her then. Hands trembling, Lizzie brought her phone to her right ear and waited.

_"Hello?”_

“Hi! Is this Maud?” Lizzie tried her brightest, chirpiest tone.

 _“Yes, this is her.”_  The voice coming from the other side of the line, though, didn't sound so bright.  _“Sorry, but who’s this?”_

“Oh, sorry! Sorry, I forgot! It's— It’s Lizzie. Henry’s… friend.” There really wasn’t a right word to describe her status. “Do you remember me? You gave me your number last year. You said I could ring you... if anything should...”

_“Oh, Lizzie! Of course I remember you, luv! You alright?”_

That was it, her last resort: ringing the girl she had once thought was Henry’s girlfriend. There should be at least some sort of reward for the most desperate of measures.

“Yeah. Hmm, listen… Have you talked to Henry lately?”  

_“I think we texted a week ago or so. Why? Did something happen?”_

Maud sounded oblivious enough, so Henry mustn't have told her. Why not fake it then?

“No, no. Everything’s fine.” She chuckled, forcing again her easy voice. Lizzie didn’t know why she was fake smiling when Maud couldn't see her. “It’s just that, well, I haven’t been able to talk to Henry since... last week, I reckon.”

A lie. It had been more than a fortnight since she had last seen him. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe he’s changed his number?”

_“I don’t think so, no. Have you tried his flat?”_

Relief flooded over Lizzie. Henry had not moved out yet, which was her biggest fear. “Yeah, I— I have. But I couldn’t find him there. At least the times I tried.”

Another lie. Lizzie hadn’t had the courage to simply… go to his flat and knock on his door. She had passed in front of his building a couple of times, had longingly stared at his window, but hadn’t done much further. How could she think of meeting him face to face when she couldn't even come up with a text? If she were to meet him, it had to look like it happened by chance.

_“Oh, have you checked the campus library? I wouldn’t be surprised to find him there. Harry said your exams are coming up. Yikes.”_

“Just so.” Lizzie chuckled, nervously. For the last couple of weeks she had been constantly telling herself she should have started revising ages ago. She had thought that worrying about her exams would be enough to get Henry out of her mind. She had been wrong. “Yes, I’ve checked the library but no. I couldn’t find him.”

In fact, Lizzie had checked every place on campus she had ever seen him at. The library, the café, the students' union hub. She had even gone to a meeting of the Tolkien Society. Not only she had not found Henry there, she had to explain she actually had never seen the last Lord of the Rings film. Embarrassing to say the least.

“Maud, did Henry… Did Henry tell you if he’s doing anything this weekend?”

_“Oh, you know what? He actually did!”_

“DID HE?!” Lizzie almost dropped her phone.

_“Yeah, he said he was going to this party— Promoland, melodrama, something like that.”_

Her heart sunk with that strange information. Henry going to a party? Unless… “Oh, I think I know the one. Propaganda. It’s a indie rock scene.”

_“Sounds about right."_

Lizzie remembered one time she shared earbuds with Henry. "Did he… Did he say if he was going there by himself? Or if he’s going with friends?”

_“No, luv. I’d be surprised if he told me that much. You know how Harry is.”_

Unfortunately, she did. It was hard enough to find a person who didn’t want to be found, but finding someone who didn’t use social media was especially difficult. Henry did have a Facebook profile — a meager thing with his basic information and a simple enough profile picture that Lizzie had kept looking at for the past few days — but he had not updated it in months.  _Some employers like to check your profile_ , he had once said, and that was the only reason he had an account in the first place.    

> “What if he’s a psychopath?” Her sister Cecily had asked her. She was the only person Lizzie had opened up about Henry. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, Lizzie on her laptop. It looked like stalking really wasn't her forte.
> 
> “I mean, why isn't him on Twitter or Instagram? I wonder what he’s hiding.”
> 
> “He’s not hiding anything!” Lizzie took it almost personally. “He’s just a private person, is all.”
> 
> “Well, I don’t know. I don’t think he's safe.”
> 
> “ _Safe?_ What— Cece! We lived in the same flat for months! He’s not a psychopath. Henry is just… Henry.”

_“Lizzie, are you still there?”_

“Oh, yes! Sorry, I was reminiscing. Yeah, I know exactly how he is.”

_“I’m sorry I can’t be of much help.”_

“Oh no, no, no! You’ve helped me tremendously! Truly, thank you.”

A pause.

_“...You know you can tell me if anything’s wrong, right?”_

“There’s nothing wrong.” Lizzie tried her sweet voice again, her most melodious pitch. Easy lies coated with sugar. She had learned it from her father.

_“Yeah, but if you need to talk—”_

“Maud, I think there’s someone’s calling me. I should really go.”

_“Alright, luv. I won’t press it any further.”_

“Thank you again, Maud. Just… please don’t tell Henry I called.”

So this was how Lizzie found herself outside the legendary Electric Ballroom on a Saturday night, elbowing the hordes of undergrads desperately trying to forget about their exams with some booze and late night partying. Those famous clubs of Camden Town, the ones that had seen the likes of The Smiths, U2 and many other rock legends, those cubs were always crowded on the weekends. That would pose a challenge to her quest, no doubt.

“Is your name on the guest list?” The bouncer asked Lizzie, her voice barely audible above the loud beat reverberating off the club’s brick walls. She tried again, spacing her words and raising her pitch. “Miss, is. your. name. on. the. guest. list?"

"Hmm, yes. Yes, it should be there.” Lizzie tried her best blank face. Of course her name was not on the list. “Name's Elizabeth Regina York.” She hoped her nonchalant tone would do the trick for her.

But her arm was held out when she tried to scurry past the door staff. “I would need to check your ID, miss. But I don’t see your name here.”

“It should be there. There’s got to be some mistake. Certainly it’s there.” Lizzie tried again to step around to get to the ticket booth, but the bouncer blocked her way and held out a hand to her.

“I will have to ask you to get back in the queue.”

Lizzie glanced at the number of people queueing up behind her. At the pace it all was going, Lizzie would get to the club at the end of the party. Who knew if Henry would still be there. “Look, is there anything you can do for me? There’s been some mistake surely.”

The security guard was adamant. “Miss, if your name’s not on the list there’s nothing I can do. House’s full.”

“But I really need to get in there! If you could just—”

“I’m sorry, miss. Not my job, not my problem.”

She tried to grasp at something, anything. “See, my boyfriend’s in there! I really need to talk to him.”

“Then he should’ve waited for you outside, shouldn’t he?” Yes, he should have. Only he wasn't her boyfriend at all. She opened her mouth to plead again but was interrupted once more. “Get back in the queue, miss.”

A wild commotion was heard then. “MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY!” People cleared the path as a drunk girl dressed in a fluorescent pink top was carried outside, hanging on the shoulders of two friends. She vomited, splashing a few people on her way out.

“Teens these days...” The security guard shook her head. She turned back to Lizzie only to found that she had already vanished inside.

The loud beating of the club partially deafened Lizzie. As her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, the inevitable question came to her: how on earth would she find Henry at such packed and poorly lit rooms? She stood in the corner of the main room, tried to discern the dancing heads from one another. The flickering lights made her uncomfortably dizzy, the heavy boom of the bass shook the floor under her feet.

The DJ on stage made a sign and everyone started cheering. Soon enough the lyrics of Mr. Brightside were heard, people singing along from the top of their lungs. A few Alex Turner’s face masks swam among the crowd.

 _♫ Jealousy, turning saints into the sea_  
_Swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis_  
_But it’s just the price I pay, destiny is calling me_  
_Open up my eager eyes, ‘cause I’m Mr. Brightside♫_

People spinning around, arms raised, bobbing their heads, singing. The blasting music was contagious. Everyone looked like having such a good time. Lizzie had never felt so out of place before. Feeling half-defeated, she decided to go to the bar — eventually Henry would have to stop there, she reckoned. He would at least ask for a glass of water. Realising she could not simply stand there indefinitely without being asked her drink, she asked for her traditional pint of Strongbow Dark Fruit.

“We don’t have that here.” Lizzie tried to think of another drink, but the bartender’s impatience made her unable to think fast. “Would you like a Carling instead?” She accepted the beer, if only not to let him waiting any longer. She hated disappointing people, from strangers working service jobs to family and friends.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “If you come with me outside I can buy you a Strongbow.” The voice barked at her ear. “There’s a Liddl just down the street.” Lizzie turned her head to look at the unknown man with such a who-the-fuck-are-you look that he felt compelled to present himself. “Couldn’t help but notice you standing there, princess.” He offered her a crooked smile and extended his hand to her. “Hi. I'm—”

“Goodbye.” Lizzie grabbed her pint and dashed away. 

She stopped by the stairs leading to the ladies and gents. That was another place Henry would have to pass by eventually, wasn’t it? The minutes ticked by, her pint glass was emptied. She bought another. Lizzie checked every guy’s face that came her way, some who looked back unkindly. She sat down, no longer caring whether her seat was too dirty to rest her bum. Further inside The 1975 and other bands were playing. She pulled out her mobile — No messages, no texts, no nothing. Muteness. She decided she didn't care anymore. 

> **Lizzie**
> 
> Where are you?

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

> **Lizzie**
> 
> I miss you.

It felt like carving her heart out. How could those simple words make her feel so vulnerable, so naked? Everything was coming into place, and oh, she was most certainly an idiot! If only her foolish pride hadn't rendered her so blind, she might have seen that... that...

Lizzie wiped the single tear that dared to roll down her cheek. She would  _not_  let herself be seen like this. She thought of all the girls she had met crying at nightclubs. She would not be like that, and yet, the thought only made her sadder. She hid her face behind her hands and wept silently, one tear at a time. Bitter tears of frustration.

Not so silently as she would like to. A warm hand landed on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” She peered through her fingers to find the blurred vision of a girl smiling down at her. Lizzie cleaned her cheeks.

“I’m ok, thank you.” Maybe if she wasn’t feeling like utter rubbish she might have remembered the features of that girl.

“You don't look ok. What happened?”

Lizzie laughed bitterly. “ _I_ happened. I've fucked up everything." The words sounded harsh even to her own ears. "I've botched it all up. That’s what happened.”

The girl offered her that same sympathetic smile Rodrigo had given her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be.” Lizzie sniffed and smiled weakly. She felt so unbelievably pathetic. She wanted to be left alone to her misery, but it wouldn't be the polite thing to say. "Sorry, there's something I must do. I've gotta go."

She got up from her place and almost ran to the first floor. That was it, Lizzie had decided: she would find Henry right there and then, even if it was the last thing she did in her life. She circled the dance floor, touched shoulders and arms. "Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry." Not him, not him, not that one either. The flickering lights started making her dizzy again, the loud beat hurt her ears.

 _♫ Well are you mine?_  
       are you mine tomorrow?  
Are you mine?   
       or just mine tonight?  
Are you mine?   
        are you mine tomorrow?  
Or just mine tonight? _♫_

"Henry!" Her heart jumped. She saw the back of a head that looked just like him. The same haircut and the same slope of the shoulders. She grabbed his arm and he turned and... It wasn't him. She backed off by small tentative steps. "I'm... sorry!" Her steps soon turned into running. She wanted to flee, to disappear. She needed to get out of there.

 

* * *

 

"I need to get out of here." Henry almost shouted, trying to get his words across. The music was loud enough to muffle his voice.

"What, really?" Ed shouted back. "The party's just started."

"I know." Henry had tried to battle his growing discomfort, to no avail. He just wasn't feeling up for a party that night.

"Alright, mate. Just let me get Tom."

"There's no need to—"

Ed took two long strides and tapped Tom on the shoulder. Though he couldn't hear him, Henry could see the words coming out of his mouth. Tom snapped back his head as if a teacher had just caught him sleeping during class. "What? Now?!" Ed uttered some words back. " _He_  can go. I'm not leaving."

"Tom, c'mon!" Ed's frustration was loud enough to be heard this time.

"I'm not leaving yet! They're playing absolute bangers tonight! And not to mention the girls."

Henry rolled his eyes but moved to intervene. "Guys, guys. There's no need. Stay, both of you. Have a good time."

He strode along the crowd to get to the exit door, the same one that was used as an entrance. He received a few bumps along the way.  _Thrice damned people_. Didn't they all have anything else to do on a Saturday night other than flooding that club? Henry could swear the whole lot of London had rushed to Camden Town.

"Tudor, wait!" Edward shouted behind him. "I'm coming with you!"

They fought their way out, not before witnessing a girl wearing a bright fluorescent top throwing up most ungraciously. She left what could only be called a proper pavement pizza at the entrance door, but they were able to sneak around it unscathed. 

Outside, Henry was finally able to raise his arms without hitting someone. He inhaled the night air, relishing the feeling of freshness filling his lungs once more. Not that he had really cared about those things in the past few weeks, not in the least. He pulled out his cigarette pack and lighter.

"Hey, mate..." Hands on his pockets, Ed eyed him curiously. "I'm sorry about Tom. He can be quite the prick sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Henry raised an eyebrow at him, lighting up a cigarette.

"I know he can be a dickhead when he wants, ok? But he can also be a good friend... In his own way."

"Yes, I believe you." Henry sniggered, taking a drag. He almost pitied Edward for relying on such poor friends. Or maybe that was his own case, actually, though he preferred not to dwell much on the thought.

"Anyways." He sighed. "Why did you come? Go back to the party. You've still got your wristband. Go. Go have fun."

"No, no. It's quite alright." Ed dismissed it with a simple head shake. "There's a nice takeaway just around the corner where we can buy a nice kebab for a fiver. Oh, and they've got chips for a quid!"

 _Traditional drunk food_. "I'm not pissed enough for that amount of grease, thank you. I think I'll pass." He offered his friend a sardonic smile and clapped him on the shoulder as a way of goodbye.

"Tudor—"

Henry stopped and turned. "What?"

Ed hesitated, looking as if unsure of what to say. He scratched his neck. "Why are you acting so bloody weird lately?"

"Weird?" Henry forced a laugh. "I'm not acting  _weird_."

"Come on, mate! You so are! You've been sulking like a stroppy cow!"

"This is the normal me." Henry puffed and exhaled a thick white cloud, unfazed. "Nothing's wrong with that."

"Of course there's something wrong! See, you took up smoking again. I'm trying to help—"

"Why are you trying at all?" His voice came out strained, harsher than he meant to.

"Cause that's what friends do, you daft old sod!"

Ed losing his cool was a novelty, but not something that could unnerve Henry. "At the moment this daft old sod wants to be left  _alone_. Can the  _friend_ understand that, or is that so difficult?"

Ed nodded begrudgingly and looked away. "He can."

"Good." Henry flicked off his cigarette and stepped on it. "And goodbye." He moved to leave, not caring if he was littering.  _Bloody waste of a good fag, that's what._

"Wait, Tudor!" Henry turned once more, seething. "Just don't do anything stupid, ok?"

"Stupid like taking Tom's pills, for instance?"

Their colleague had offered them his "magical pills" as soon as they entered the club. He had said something along the lines of  _letting go_  and  _forgetting their troubles for the night_. Of course Henry wasn't daft enough to be tempted.

"Yeah. Precisely like that. Don't do anything you might regret later."

Henry narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm not like that."

"So you say."

"Truly, Ed. You flatter me." He waved him off. "Good night."

Henry took the night bus, but he didn’t go home. Instead he found himself at the banks of the river Thames, feet dangling from the railing. He had another lit cigarette between his knuckles, though he barely kept track of the times it touched his lips. At his side the bright lights of Millennium Bridge crossed the river like an arrow to lead into a pitch of nothingness. They had turned off the lights of St Paul's cathedral that night. It looked abandoned and alone among the brightly lit financial buildings of the City. A dreary thing that had outlived its time.  _How very apt_ , Henry thought,  _that it should be dark tonight._

Henry sat on the railing looking at that shadowed dome for long stretching minutes. The Bankside area was oddly deserted that hour. If Henry were to go to, say, Covent Garden, or Soho, or Mayfair, or any other area around Westminster, he'd found more than the distant sounds of the passing ambulances or the occasional tourists walking along the river. He liked it that way. He had sat on that same spot at another time.    

> _Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song._
> 
> She had recited, the sun setting brightly on her hair. They had stopped at that place one winter afternoon, having visited Bray's office in the City. Lizzie had fetched some papers to take to her mother that day. At the time, the lawsuit against her uncle was an ugly business, one tainted by greed and long-held family grievances. Henry, who had grown up with a loving and supportive uncle, couldn't quite image how it felt like.
> 
> "I like to think there's more to life than simply struggling." She said, crossing her ankles and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I like to think there's happiness to be found, if only we look for it hard enough."
> 
> "There is." His reassurance, though honest, was feeble.
> 
> "I want to live." She gave him a straight look, one that spoke of resolute determination. "Not just survive."
> 
> Henry didn't quite know how to respond to that, so he simply chose a silent nod. He felt the urge to kiss her there and then, but she looked so unbelievably sad. He wanted to kiss that sadness away, hold her warmth close, bury his nose in her hair. He wanted to shower her with kisses till he heard her laughing under his lips. Lizzie was made for happiness, he knew that with as much conviction as a parent knew their own child.
> 
> He gave her one of his earbuds. "Fancy some music?"
> 
> She plugged it and scooted closer. "What you've got there?" She smiled, lips parting slowly.
> 
> The sunset had turned her hair to a shade closer to red. Flame and gold.
> 
> _Sweet Thames, run softly_ , she had said,  _till I end my song._  
>  _Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long._

Oh, he would never fall in love again! Lizzie was his first, and his last. From atop the railing, Henry swept the city with one bitter look. And to think he was starting to like it. He had even thought of buying a house there, for God's sake! All the tips Lizzie had given him on how to look like a real Londoner — how he should always have his oyster card in hand ( _not in his wallet, nor in his pocket_ ), or how he should always look like he was running late, even if it was 10 pm and all he had to do was going home.  _Make yourself look important_ — all those tips and... for what?

"Why?" He blurted aloud, though he didn't know if he asked the city, the universe, or himself.

His only answer was silence. There wasn't even the wind blowing that night. The air was stalled; heavy dark clouds gathered in the sky promising rain. Down below, the river ran through silent streams. And for a moment only, he could believe he was deaf.

His phone suddenly buzzed with a text. His cigarette on his lips, Henry instinctively moved his hand to take out his mobile, but thought twice. Why should it matter if anyone was texting him? It was probably one of the lads. Probably Edward asking after him. He slipped a hand through his pocket and turned it off. It was not the best way to thank his friend, Henry knew that much. He cooly contemplated himself for what he was: a bitter man with great ambitions, with the makings of a great leader.

Maybe he didn't deserve love after all. Well, he surely wanted to be loved — maybe that was one of his many great ambitions —  but did he deserve it? Or better yet, did he need it? He would dissect the feeling, look at it through a medical lens, turn it into numbers and compute it, if only he could. A sudden anger built inside him then. He lifted himself up and stood straight with his two feet on the railing. He surveyed the buildings across the river with one appraising look. He would conquer that city, that country. He would not let himself down. With one look of defiance, he proclaimed: "I will not!"

"Yeah, man! Fuck them!"

Startled, Henry lost his balance. His cigarette fell on the dark waters below. His foot slipped, but a hand immediately took hold of him and pulled him backwards, bringing him back to the safety of the ground.

"Careful, bruv! Careful!"

Alarmed, Henry gasped for air, soon undergoing a fit of coughing. One of the strangers patted him on back. "There, there. Easy, man."

His coughing slowly subdued. Fixing his clothes, Henry eyed the two men standing in front of him warily. Bloody stupidity to let himself be overcome by emotions like that. He could  _not_  let that happen again.

"You alright, mate?" The men were sharing a bottle hidden inside a brown paper bag. It was illegal to drink on most streets of London, but that didn't actually stop people from drinking. Of course, one could always engage their local policemen into confiscating their booze in case of insufficient sneakiness.

They passed him the paper bag. "Here, have some. For your coughing."

Henry debated whether he should take the offer or not.  _Oh, sod it._  He took a sip of the drink and gasped, immediately regretting it. "What even is this?!" He pulled out the bottle and searched the label for a definition.

"Shhh. Just drink it, man. You'll feel better."

Henry could almost laugh. "Cheers." He raised the bottle and took another sip. Then another one, and another one. He wiped his mouth before returning it to the strangers.

"I get why you're angry, man." One of them said, gesturing at the financial district across the river. "Briefcase wankers, the lot of them."

Henry supposed he was a briefcase wanker too. Or soon to be one.

"Not worse than the tax-evaders at Buckingham Palace, heh?" The second added, causing them both to laugh. They looked throughly drunk.

Henry felt like he had just walked into a feverish dream. "I'm sorry, you are?" Asking for names was the first step to intimidation, his uncle had taught him once.

"Dev." The first man answered. "And this is Andrew."

"Well, Dev, Andrew. Thanks for the drink." He fake smiled. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

“You're sure you're alright, bruv? We caught you perched on the railing like a bloody cock. Not cool, man. Not cool.”

 _Definitely not cool_. Henry felt incredibly stupid. “Mmm, yeah. I’m... fine, thanks.”

“Right. Take care, man.”

“And watch your step!” They laughed again.

Their giggle resonated into the long shadow of the night as Henry walked away. He couldn’t believe he had just received advice from two drunks. Tired, he finally let himself go home. Before entering his flat, though, he sat on the short steps leading to the building and lit another cig, for the smoke alarms in his studio flat prevented him from doing so indoors. It was a nuisance, to say the least, but better to smoke outside than waking the whole block with a noisy alarm. Taking a long drag, Henry looked at his watch: 3:07 am.

He heard footsteps approaching. A pair of ankle boots stopped in front of him.

"Henry?"

He looked up to find Lizzie. Wide-eyed, mouth slightly parted. A question danced on her lips.

_No fucking way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines "April is the cruelest month" and "Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song" are from T. S. Eliot's poem The Waste Land. "Sweet Thames, run softly", in turn, is a reference to the Elizabethan poet Edmund Spenser.
> 
> Propaganda is an actual party that I've been to many times when I was an undergrad.
> 
> ______________________________________________________________________
> 
> Since last chapter I've made two playlists/moodboards based on this fic.  
> If you want to check them out:
> 
> Lizzie: http://feuillesmortes.tumblr.com/post/169520259222/feuillesmortes-queen-of-the-town-a-we-sang
> 
> Henry: http://feuillesmortes.tumblr.com/post/169554170542/feuillesmortes-closed-heart-a-we-sang-of


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *spoilers* This is a rated M fic. This chapter contains NSFW content.

It was not the soft glowing of the moonlight that guided her steps to him. There was no moon that night — heavy clouds barred the whole canopy of the sky, looming above them like a heavy, pregnant pause. Neither did she expect to find Henry smoking outside, though the sight of him sitting on those steps felt like a true relief. 

Feeling half-drunk when she left the club, Lizzie had taken the night bus with no destination in mind other than her home. It was not until his stop came to the screen that she felt an irrational urge to get off the bus, alarm bells ringing in her ears. All of that desperation had faded in the cool night air. Standing in front of him now, all she felt was the chillness of the space between them.

"Henry?"

A curtain of ascending smoke partially shrouded his face, but she could swear she saw bewilderment in his eyes. Henry looked at her as if he had just seen a ghost, a relic from the past come alive again. His stupor only lasted a moment. In a split second he was back at his normal, collected self. He averted his gaze, looking down at the pavement as if refusing to acknowledge her presence would somehow make her go away, make her disappear from his sight.

"Hey." Lizzie tried again, determined not to be ignored. Henry blinked and kept to his cigarette for a time, then sighed softly, so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

"Hey." He parroted back after some time, though he still refused to meet her eyes.

A moment passed where all that could be heard was the sound of the cars wheeling in the distance. Lizzie shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her heeled ankle boots no longer wearable after a night out. The air felt heavy with the approaching storm, the lights coming from the lamp post cast ghastly shadows on the walls. Henry still kept the same position, wordless and pulling at his cigarette.

"I looked for you at Propaganda." She pointed at his wristband, the proof that her search for him at the party had not been so pointless after all.

Henry tilted his head to the side as if mulling over what she had just said, but he never asked her how she knew where to find him.

"I left early." He said finally.

Lizzie swallowed, not without some degree of difficulty. "I see."

The minutes threatened to stretch between them again. A car came and went by, merry laughter was heard down the road. Lizzie licked her lips and wrapped her arms around her middle. In a small, childlike voice she worked up the nerve to ask him what had been nagging her all along.

"Where have you been all this time?"

He stopped his cigarette mid-air before it touched his lips. He frowned, ever so slightly. "Revising." He uttered his one-word reply like it was the only logical answer to her question. He finally raised his eyes to her and she shivered. "You?"

His stare weighted on her. A myriad of unspoken questions hanged in the air.  _What took you so long? Why haven't you called? Why haven't you come?_  His gaze on hers was challenging. Blue eyes so cold she felt chilled to the bone.

Lizzie scraped one foot on the ground and shrugged. The voice that replied was feeble. "The same thing."

He hummed, resuming his cigarette. Lizzie embraced the awkwardness and lowered herself to his side on the steps. He tensed, but didn’t protest against it. A short moment passed where neither of them spoke a word, both facing forwards into the night. She shifted towards him, the short space making their legs come together. Once again, he remained silent. 

She gestured at the lit cigarette in his hand. "I thought you said you had quit."

" _Had._ "

She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, picked at the fresh holes that sprung on her tights. "Is that... wise?"

"No." He turned to face her. "But why does it matter?"

"It's... bad for your teeth." 

Henry let out a short laugh. They both knew that smoking was more than just bad for his teeth. Were she braver, she would say:  _I don't want you to ruin your health. I don't want you to waste your life away like my father did_. But it didn't matter. The words died in her throat before they were ever born.

Smoke went her way as Henry let out a mirthless chuckle. "And what's that to you?"

Lizzie waved off that cloud of smoke, trying to remain undisturbed by what she knew was him purposefully trying to throw her off.

"I care about you, Henry."

He chuckled again, the cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes narrowed at her. "Do you, now?"

"I always have!" It was almost painful how he couldn't see it. "Henry, we're a team."

"A team! Is that how you call it?"

She laid a hand on his arm, but he wrenched it away. "Lizzie, don't." His voice was low and deep-toned, like a warning.

Lizzie tried again, as timid as a caged bird. "I've come to say I'm sorry."

Something in the way he looked at her... something... He turned away. She watched his whole body tense, watched his shoulders rise and fall as if under a great duress.

Lizzie sprawled her hands in defeat. "Henry, what do you want me to say?"

"You always do that, Lizzie!" He stood up and turned, mindlessly pacing the pavement. "You always do that! Every time I walk away, every time I— I  _try_  to forget about you, you go and pull me back." He paused and looked at her with such accusing eyes, it shamed her. "Why do you that?"

His eyes enquired of her, but she couldn't find the words to answer them. All she could do was lower her head and gaze at the joined hands on her lap.

"I see." He resumed his pacing only to halt again after some seconds. "You know what is your problem, Lizzie?" She looked up and their eyes met again. "The problem is that you've been treated like a princess your whole life! And when people don't feed you attention..." He scoffed. "Well, you just can't take that, can you?"

Lizzie knew his words were purposefully sharp. She knew he was trying to hurt her as much as she had done to him. Lizzie knew all that and more, but as much as she'd rather have him raging before her than face his usual mutism, she winced at the harshness she found in his voice.

Henry sighed deeply, covering his eyes with one hand. "It's not... It's not what I mean. Not really. Not... truly." He let himself fall back on the steps again. "Go home, Lizzie." He rubbed his eyes weakly. "Go before I say something I'll regret."

"No!" Lizzie blurted out, feeling suddenly bold. "No. You've said your piece, now I'm going to say mine."

Henry sniggered, grumbling something that came out completely unintelligible with that cigarette in his mouth.

"What were you— what did you say?" Henry only kept smoking that disgraceful, damned cigarette. "Henry, are you listening to me?"

"Actually, Lizzie. No, I'm not."

"Don't be so—"  _childish_ , she meant to say. But the constant sight of that cigarette in his hand enraged her more than Henry himself. He was using that cigarette almost like a shield, like another thing to put distance between them. With one swift movement of defiance, she caught it from his fingers and flung it across the street.

Henry didn't protest, he only glared at her for a second. Then slowly, deliberately showing her his movements, he pulled out his cigarette pack and got another one. Lizzie narrowed her eyes at him as he lit it in front of her, taking a drag and blowing out his smoke close enough for her to be uncomfortable. She tried to grasp it from him again, but he lifted up his arm that time. She pulled on his sleeve but he only raised his arm higher. The cigarette was now completely out of her reach.

"Give—give me that!"

"No."

"Give me that, Henry!"

"Lizzie, cut it out!"

"Henry!"

"Lizzie!"

He switched hands and Lizzie struggled even more. As absurd as it felt, they were wrestling for a cigarette. Amidst that battle of arms and limbs, she straddled him and he went immediately still, frozen in action. She took the opportunity to yank the cigarette from his fingers and gloriously flung it away. Balancing herself on his lap, Lizzie couldn’t help her triumphant face as she beamed down at him, though Henry didn’t look so amused himself. Both breathing heavily by now, a reaction came to him as he clutched her hips and angled her towards him.

"That was my last one." He glared at her, his voice strained.

Lizzie shook her head, her nose hovering inches apart from his face. "I don't care."

Such an un-Lizzie thing to say.

She watched his jaw clench tight, saw the little muscle at its corner pulse. His grip on her hip tightened and he took a deep breath, but his eyes had a distant quality to it as if he was looking not at her, but  _past_  her. As if he was  _focused_. 

She had seen that same look once before when they still lived in the same flat. One night she had tried to quickly sneak into the kitchen to get some biscuits. Walking in her wearing nothing but her pyjama shorts and a bra, Henry had instantly turned to face the wall as she crossed her arms across her chest, both of them mumbling half a hundred apologies. That night Henry had the same stoic look: the look a man determined not give himself away.

Lizzie was about to prove she was not so ease to ignore. She shifted in his lap and he drew another breath. "I really..." she shifted again "... couldn't..." and again "... care less."

It took less than a second for him to crash his lips against hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss, no. His mouth hungrily devoured her, teething clashing and pulling. Lizzie didn't hesitate either; she twisted his shirt in her hands, pulled at his shoulders. Henry tasted acidic and ashy, like the embers burning in the furnace of his heart — a wash of heat flowing down her throat to her chest. He sucked on her tongue, bringing her closer by cradling the nape of her head and weaving his fingers in her hair. She bit his lip and arched against him, rolling her hips.

He pulled apart, breathless and pupils enlarged. "What are you doing?!"

"What are  _you_  doing?" One of his hands still remained in her hair, the other one still firmly gripped her hip.

He blinked twice, sudden realisation coming to him. "We're both doing it."

"We're both." She breathed, nodding.

Then they were kissing again, his desperate hands traveling the length of her torso and fingertips sneaking under her top. God, she had missed it! His mouth on hers, his touch on her skin. She clung to his shoulders as he ran a series of kisses down her neck, reaching her collarbone to lick and suck. Lizzie felt light-headed and drowsy — she writhed and sighed contently into the night air like a desert traveller who had just chanced upon a well.

Henry ceased his frantic exploration. "Lizzie." His ragged breath fanned her neck in the lightest of caresses.

"Don't stop." She meowed, gently rolling her hips against the burgeoning hardness she felt down between her legs.

He let out what could only be described like a reluctant grunt. He cupped her cheek so as to make her look down at him. "Don't—" He shut his eyes and opened them up again. "Don't do this to me."

His voice was half-plea, half-moan. She took a long considering look at him. There was a small side of him that he rarely ever let people see. It was there whenever he thought no one was watching him, it was there whenever he dropped his sarcastic mask. A liability, a palpable thoughtfulness, a vulnerable corner.

"Never."

They heard a soft thunder, a few small raindrops following right after. They stared at each other for some seconds, both searching for things to say — promises and prayers and sweet lies, all woven together like a beautiful tapestry. The much awaited rain started dropping from the skies.  _April rains bring May blooms_. Spring season, rain season. The season of lovers.

Lizzie was the first to break the silence. "We should..."

"We should probably..."

"... Go inside."

"We should."

They hastily got up and flew to the door before their clothes could get any wetter. Rain was only romantic on the telly and well, theirs was real life. Casting a sideways glance at Lizzie, Henry fumbled with his keys. A rare thing, to see him so out of his cool collected self — a deliciously illicit discovery, if Lizzie were to be honest, to see how much she could affect him. But Lizzie wasn't much better herself: looking down at her manicured nails, she could see that her hands trembled with... anticipation, fear, excitement? They half-ran the stairs up to his flat as if those raindrops were still falling on their backs.

Lizzie felt half-drunk again, a sudden bolt of energy had taken over that otherwise miserable-looking night. She barged through his door and kicked off her boots in the middle of his living room, finally ridding herself from the torture devices that had crushed her toes up to that point. She ran a hand through her hair to fix it — she would give out every penny she had for a chance to see herself in a mirror at that moment, but alas! Her fingers would have to do the work. Henry slowly locked his door and leaned against it, hands inside his pockets, openly staring at her. 

Outside, the raindrops made the softest of noises. There was something heavy hanging in the air — a belief, a  _certainty_ , that nothing would ever be the same again. Henry lingered at the door for a moment only, then languorously made his way to her. She sucked in her breath as if her very life depended on the next words he was about to speak.

"So..." There was an amused glint in his eyes. His whole face had a soft expression to it, but his gaze was as lively and as piercing as ever. "Do you come here often?"

She burst in laughter, almost relieved.  _How very corny_. "Perhaps not as often as I should."

"Oh?" He laced an arm around her waist, bringing her body close to his, and nuzzled her cheek. "And how could I remedy that situation?"

His whispering in her ear sent shivers down her spine, but she tried to play it cool. Oh, so cool. She flashed him her flirtiest smile. “Perhaps you should invite me more often.”

"Is that so?" Henry chuckled but pulled back, his smile slowly subduing. He drew a long sigh, an exhilaration cutting through the dead silence of the night. “Lizzie...” He ran a thumb along her cheek. “What are we doing here?”

She caught his hand, gently rubbed it with her thumb, brought it to her lips, kissed it. She wholeheartedly embraced the still lingering smell of tobacco on it. In her mind, Henry had always had attractive hands: hands that she observed stirring his coffee in the mornings, hands that worked on his endless excel spreadsheets. Hands that typed, gripped and flexed. “Perhaps..." She drew lazy circles on the back of that hand. "Perhaps we should find out.”

The skies had partially cleared by then. A faint moonlight came filtered through the windows. Her necklace, the one that he had given her, was now dangling over her top. It glinted under the artificial light coming from the lamp post. Henry took the pendant in his fingers, squinted his eyes at it. Was he even wearing his contacts that night?

“You’ve kept it.” His observation had a touch of question to it.

“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

He smiled again, softly at first, but quickly turning into a smirk. “You’re right. I’ve got excellent taste—” Lizzie chortled. "—if I do say so myself."

"Unbelievable!"

Henry winked at her, or rather, attempted at winking. "Come on, just admit it."

“You cheeky—" She tugged at his shirt. "—lobster!”

“Lobster?” Henry arched an eyebrow. “If you’re telling me I have greedy, sneaky hands...” His fingers slipped under her top and drummed her ribcage. “Well, I do.”

“No, I meant—” He flushed her body against his, hands gripping her waist tight. He kissed the spot under her earlobe, the barest flick of tongue touched it. “I meant...” God, what did she mean? “Well, actually...”

“Mmm?" He nosed her ear. "You were saying?”

"Oh, just kiss me already, will you!"

She erased that perfectly devilish smile with her mouth on his, a clash of lips and tongues. With two hands firmly planted under her bum, Henry lifted her up and placed her on the small table gracing his living room. There were books and piles of paper that he swiftly cast aside.  _Forget revising_. They were doing a different type of learning that night. Never breaking their kiss, Lizzie pulled him between her legs — she desperately wanted to bring him closer and closer. They had already wasted too much time putting unnecessary excuses between them.

"Hold still."

He pulled her hips close to the edge of the table and then, kissing her neck, his hands trailed under her skirt to roll down her tights. Then they slowly travelled back, sending goosebumps along her skin. He rucked up the skirt around her waist. Her breath hitched as a hand smoothed down one thigh and ascended the soft curve of her hip to rest on a silk tie.

“You’re beautiful, did you know that?”

Lizzie was caught by surprise. What was she supposed to say to that? Another hand slid on the underside of a thigh to stop at the spot between her legs. 

"Too beautiful to be exact. Distractingly so."

Was that a... complain? Her confusion was short-lived as his fingers started to caress her through the dampened fabric with soft, barely-there touches.

"Is it okay if I...?" His breath fanned her cheek in short, quick intakes of air.

She shut her eyes tight, feeling her face exceedingly hot. "Mm-hmm."

He gingerly slipped his fingers inside her knickers and she barely suppressed a gasp. "And this?"

"Ye-yes."

His feather-like touches were succeeded by more forceful strokes, and she clung to his neck as she rocked her hips against his hand. She felt almost like a wretched, bawdy thing to offer herself so openly to his touch, but the soft voice in her ear only spoke of burning and longing.  _Beautiful._  

There was something thrilling and entrancing in those long dead hours of the night, liminal space between midnight and dawn.  _Beautiful_. Her fingers were curled into his hair and blimey! It was the softest thing. Some things were so easy for men, Lizzie couldn’t help thinking, it was maddeningly unfair.

God, she felt her face so hot it could burst. Just when she was close, so so close, Henry stopped his industrious fingers and took away his hand. She sighed, frustrated, and his chuckle reverberated on the hollow of her throat.  _Bastard_. She pushed him back and started tugging at his clothes. They were about to see who laughed last and longest. She shot him a sultry look and traced a finger along his belt, then sneaked a hand under his shirt to travel along his stomach. 

She fluttered her lashes at him."Take off your clothes."

His eyes went large for a second only, then he was knocking off his shoes, unfastening his belt, hastily removing his shirt, everything at once. Thoroughly satisfied at the effect of her words, Lizzie was working at the zip of his jeans when she looked up. Henry had proceeded with such haste his shirt got stuck around his head. His embarrassed smile was the only thing not covered by the shirt as he stood there, trapped. 

Lizzie had to stifle a laugh but she had never seen such a dazzling sight of him, as awkward as the situation presented itself. His smile was a wide grin, open and carefree. What a rare thing to see.

"You know, a hand up here would be most welcomed too."

Lizzie tried again to suppress a laugh, but ultimately failed.

" _Not_  that I'm complaining about your hand down there. Let me be quite clear."

She helped him get rid of his shirt and Henry quickly flung it across the room (she reckoned his flat had probably never known such a state of untidiness). He went back to the nest between her legs, a place that fitted him so well, and everything came to a halt. It was as if falling stars buzzed at their sides, heralding something secret and ineffable. She cupped his face with both her hands — she half-expected his cheekbones to cut her palms, so sharp they were. But no, they were soft, almost as soft as the blue eyes that looked back at her. In those eyes she read the freshness of a world wildly, irrevocably in love. Eyes so blue she could drown.

He rested his forehead against hers. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

She suddenly felt very shy and small "... You’re not?"

His answer came in the form of a long deep kiss that turned into a quick, restless frenzy again. She made a trail of hot kisses along his jaw as he unclasped each and every bottom of her skirt, Lizzie pulling down his trousers so he would stand in nothing but his boxers. Henry was cupping her bra from under her top when her hand knocked something off the table.

He pulled back. "Wait, wait, wait. My glasses."

"Oh my god, your glasses!" Embarrassed, Lizzie prayed they weren’t broken at least.

Henry was about to pick them up when he stopped and growled. "You know what? Forget them. A bed! We should use a bed!"

She had never seen him like that, her Henry.  _Her Henry!_  She didn't have time to think of that, especially when they were rushing to his room, loudly opening up doors, tumbling down in bed. She took off her top as he slid down her stomach to plant feverish kisses along the soft marble of her skin. Her knickers came off easily as he hooked up a hand and slid them down her legs. His kisses travelled further south and south and—

Lizzie gasped. No, she had to pull him back. "No, no, no. Not this time."

From up above her, Henry shot her a wry smile. "Not  _this_  time?"

Of course that implied there would be  _another_  time, which made Lizzie blush profusely. Yet Henry only chuckled and pecked her cheek.

"Relax, darling." She smiled at the endearment and he kissed the other cheek. "You're safe with me." He moved on to kiss her chin, her lips. "We won't do anything you don't want to do." His kisses were traveling down her neck by then. "Alright?"

She closed her eyes and curled her fingers into his hair again. "Alright."

Propped up on elbow and hand, Henry moved aside a bra strap to plant a kiss on her shoulder, then made his way down along her breastbone. He went back for her mouth, his weight on her pushing her further into the mattress. They were fairly grinding by then, his leg trapped between her own, when Henry stopped. Blinking for a moment, his eyes scanned down her body. “Lizzie”, he breathed heavily. She didn’t know if that was a question, a plea or an exclamation. She was too much and yet not enough.

She framed his face and he looked up at her again. The glint of a thousand stars stared back at her. As if sensing Henry was all but waiting for a sign, Lizzie nodded her head, caressing his sides with the lightest brush of her fingertips. He moved to kiss her mouth again and she sprawled against him like a lazy cat under the heat of the sun. Ever feeling his hardness against her, her hands tugged at the waistband of his boxers when he stopped her again.

“Wait!”

Henry hurried through his drawers and came back with a condom. Thank heaven one of them thought about protection! Lizzie sat up and grasped it from his hands, too impatient herself by then, and ripped off the packaging with her teeth. Henry simply watched her with a mixture of confusion, awe and adoration as she pulled down his boxers. Her touch like fire, Henry closed his eyes shut and muttered a string of curses under his breath. Lizzie only smirked, feeling incredibly wicked and powerful for once. She pulled him to bed and climbed atop him, and they both stood still for a time.

That was it, wasn’t it? The end of a hopeless night with the friction of bodies, the movement of flesh against flesh. Wasn’t it something people their age did? Wasn’t it what it meant to be young and unafraid?

Their chests rose and fell in cadence, then his hands swept up and around her hips, stopping at her waist. He stood up to kiss her neck, making her sigh and squirm against him. He unclasped and slid off her bra, the only layer of fabric still standing between the two. He murmured against her skin, each word punctuated by a lick of his tongue. “Belle, belle. Que tu es belle.” Their hips started moving, hands roving, squeezing and claiming every inch of skin they could find. All that was heard was heavy breathing, low grunts and whimpers. His chest hair scratched against her skin, his fingers gripped her waist tight enough to make indentations.

It would all come back to Lizzie in vividly coloured flashbacks: Henry kissing the necklace hanging in the valley between her breasts, his mouth claiming a nipple, his fingers sliding through her hair strands before they stopped and pulled.  _I fucking love your hair._  Words confessed against her skin, reverend hands worshipping her like a prayer. He was hard and angular where she was soft and pliant. She felt on her tongue the salty sweat held on his upper lip, felt his back muscles moving under her hands. She arched against him as her mind became foggier and foggier. A need, a hungry need.  _Kiss me harder, harder, harder._

Toes that curled. Lips that lazily brushed against each other. Eyelids that closed shut as the night turned white. All her fears and doubts, all her joy and ecstasy — all swallowed by a kiss, a final kiss, a whimper against his mouth. She didn't remember falling back on the mattress, but she did remember weakly clutching the sheets as Henry went on. She remembered wrapping her arms around him as his pace grew frantic, remembered his face as he came undone, red and pained and beautiful. Lizzie could love him for it.

Henry rolled off her and fell back on his pillow. Breathless, his cheeks were still very red. Neither of them spoke as their overheated bodies cooled off with each new intake of air. Out his window, the blue-purple night spread into a new dawn. Another day prepared to rise. Slowly, as if waking from a dream, Lizzie became acutely aware of her nakedness. She tried to remember where each item of clothing had been discarded. She meant to get up and look for them when Henry laid a hand on her wrist.

"Stay." His fingers slid down to her hand and squeezed it. "Stay with me." 

Lizzie adjusted back on the pillows and he pulled the covers over them. "I'll make you tea in the morning."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "It  _is_  the morning."

Henry waved it off with a yawn. "Later, then." His voice groggy with sleep, he folded both arms under his head and closed his eyes serenely. The faintest blush still painted his cheeks from exertion.

"But do you know how I take my—"

"Three minutes brewing. A dash of milk, two sugars." She gaped at him and he still went on. "Unless it's mint or green tea, of course, then honey is the option to go."

"How... how do you know all that?"

The corners of his mouth quirked up and one eye popped open. "I am _quite_ the observer." His gaze flew from her chest to her eyes and back to her lips. "I pay attention to  _every_  detail."

Why did the way he said that made her whole body tingle?

Henry put an arm around her waist and drew her to his chest. "You’ve left me right knackered." He closed his eyes again. "Let's go sleep."

 _Sleep_ , Lizzie told herself. Come morning, there would be tea for her and coffee for him. An unbearably heavy degree of intimacy, truth be told, heavier than laying naked together. Anxiety gnawed at her: that was a point of no return.

She shook his arm. "Henry?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you think we've made a mistake?"

His eyes instantly shot open again. "No."

The conviction in his voice reassured her, just a little bit. "Where do we go from here?"

Henry sighed and shifted on the mattress. "I don't know." His eyes perused the ceiling, then a warm smile spread across his face. Slowly, softly, like he was harvesting a secret. "I think we'll have to see."

Lizzie mirrored that small, contagious smile. "We'll see."

Their eyes found each other again. Henry tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cradled her neck to kiss her, the softest brush of lips. As gentle as the touch of a hundred rose petals. The simplest of gestures, costing not less than everything.

_His mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.*_

She put her questions on hold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little note: I have started a sequel for this AU. If you're interested, just click on my profile and you should find it.  
> Thank you all for your support! It's fun to create but it's even more fun to share x
> 
> _____________________________________________________
> 
> "His mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars" is a line from the poem Saying Your Names by Richard Siken.


	11. Epilogue

“Thomas, we’re going to be late.”

There were few things that could hint Margaret Beaufort was displeased. The slight rise of a single eyebrow, her legs crossing at the ankles, the light tapping of her fingers on her leather purse. Perhaps most noticeable of all was the sucking in of her left cheek, usually followed by a small pout of discontent that would colour her words with just the barest touch of aggravation. But she knew full well that the perfect canvas for her displeasure resided in her eyes. Margaret Beaufort had grown used to silencing any rising confrontation with just one look. For a woman surviving in business as long as she had, learning tricks such as these had proved to be useful more than once.

It was that same icy look she turned now at her husband, Thomas Stanley. Sitting in the back seat of a fashionable Mercedes, Margaret got hold of her phone to check the hour for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Relax, Meg.” The voice from the front seat chirped. “We’ll get there in time.”

Their eyes crossed in the rear-view mirror. “Thomas,” Margaret began very slowly, drawing out every word with precision. “If we don’t leave in five minutes we won’t make it to Henry’s graduation.”

It was the most important day of her son’s life. Margaret could not ―  _would not ―_ miss it. She had supported him throughout his entire academic journey: she had cheered him on, had watched him from the wings. Achievement after achievement, semester after semester. She had rooted for him, yes, but most importantly, she had _worked_ for his success, had made _sure_ nothing would hinder his path to his ambitioned degree. Even if it meant working extra hours, even if it meant taking financial risks. Nothing was too much to risk or give up for her son, her only child.

“I’m on the TfL app. It says here there’s no heavy traffic ahead.”

Her nails tapping rhythmically on the side of her clutch bag. “That could change.”

“We’re waiting for William, Margaret.” _Margaret_. It seemed her husband had understood she was not in the mood for nicknames. “He’s the one driving. It is his car after all.”

She shot a disgruntled look at the empty driver’s seat. “What could possibly keep your brother so long?”

Thomas fixed his tie and searched her eyes in the mirror. He smiled. “You’d be surprised.”

Margaret blinked and raised her eyebrows slightly, but protested no further. By now she was used to her husband’s cryptic answers. Years of marriage had given them a silent understanding of each other. It was true that their relationship had begun almost like a business partnership ― both recently widowed at the time, it had been easy to find comfort in the arms of someone undergoing the same kind of grief, especially if that someone came with an affluent income or the sort of privileged name that made it possible to open the right type doors in society. But there was fondness between them too, perhaps there had even been love at some point. A different sort of affection: slow, steady, grounded.

It had been much different with Henry’s father, Edmund. She had believed herself to be madly in love back then. A teenager, Margaret had known no better than to swoon over the honeyed words of an older man that had vowed to have her best interests at heart. She had consented to give him almost everything, from her hand in marriage to her inherited money. Yet there was already something akin to a steel will in that young girl too, in the way she refused to take his name, or the way she refused to name their child after her father-in-law. In the end, she had never been able to forgive him for that stupid drink-driving accident that left her alone, alone with a child in her belly and what was already a difficult pregnancy. May God forever bless his brother Jasper. If not for him, if not for his help and generosity…

Margaret looked out the car window, squinting at the bright blue sky. The lack of clouds that day could only be a good sign. She took a deep sigh. It was difficult to think back on those desperate times without being affected somehow. She had pushed through as best as she could, as she still did to that day. Pushing through, pushing through. One day at a time.

Henry, she had always sympathised with the name. Henry Stafford, he was called. Her second, dearly beloved husband. He had always been there in her life, an acquaintance, almost like a background character or a distant cousin. But they got close, and closer, and then he swept her off her feet when she had convinced herself love would never be an option for her again. Henry had breathed life back into her, had fuelled her dreams and ambitions. She, a young widow with a son! Margaret had wanted to give him children of their own, she had wanted it so very much. God knew how much she had wanted to give her son little brothers and sisters. Margaret still remembered the little shabby house she and Henry had worked hard to transform into a home. She remembered the way her husband would tickle her son or say _“Hey there small Harry, this is big Harry speaking.”_ And the way her son would wrinkle his nose protesting _“But I won’t be small forever!”_

Margaret smiled fondly at the memory. A chuckle escaped her almost like a sob. He had not stayed small, her son. Though Margaret herself was short, her boy had grown up to be tall. She wished Henry Stafford could see him now. Thirteen years of marriage had left the sweetest of memories.

Thomas turned back in his seat and reached out for her hand. She let him took it, and his thumb gently brushed her knuckles. “You alright there, Meg?”

She squeezed out a smile for him. That was not a day to cry. “Just reminiscing, dear.”

For all of their differences, Thomas was a gift in himself as well. He had supported her when business at the publishing house wasn’t doing so well. He had provided so Henry’s permanence at uni wouldn’t be threatened by the change of tides. Margaret knew she owed him a debt of gratitude for that. He had been brave, his friends had once jested, to marry a woman who had already been twice widowed, but Thomas had laughed it off. Yet still to that day her reputation as a black widow prickled Margaret uncomfortably. Sometimes she couldn’t help but wondering: was she destined then to watch her loved ones die? Watch them depart one by one as she stayed behind? Would she watch them all leave? All of them ― husbands, parents, friends, all of them, even her own son? No, not her son... It was unnatural for a parent to bury a child. She could not think of a worse fate.

No, Margaret decided, trying to find comfort in her faith. God was greater than all of her fears. _No_ , she decided with more conviction that time. That wasn't a day to wallow in self-pity ― it was a day for celebration. Margaret got hold of her husband’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Thomas.” She didn’t know how much longer their marriage would last, but for that, and for that only, she would always been grateful.

The car door opened abruptly. “Everybody ready to go?”

“Oh thank god, William!” Her husband turned back and sighed.

“What?” His brother shot them an unsuspecting look as he ignited the keys and fastened his seat belt. “We won’t be late, if that’s what you fear.”

He searched for his sister-in-law’s approval when he turned to adjust the mirror. “And the boy’s not alone there, is he, Margaret? His uncle is keeping him company.”

They looked fairly similar to each other, the Stanley brothers. They both had their mother’s face: the same grey eyes and the same dimples when they grinned. But Thomas sported a beard whilst William kept his face clean-shaved. The Stanley genes, they had once called it: the face lines and quirks that always made them look posed and ready for their next mischief. Edmund and Jasper had looked nothing alike.

“Jasper is there already, yes. But that shouldn’t be an excuse for us to be late.”

“We won’t be late.” William vowed again. “You’ll see, sister. I’ll fly like the wind.”

Margaret gripped the car seat tight as his Mercedes launched into motion. True to his very word, William drove extraordinarily fast, zigzagging through traffic all the way down to Southbank Centre. They arrived at the Royal Festival Hall just fifteen minutes before the ceremony doors started to close. Knowing her son, Margaret was sure he had arrived at least one hour and a half before. Thomas and William headed to the registration desks to collect their tickets, but Margaret made her own way. She kept weaving through the crowds, pushing through, pushing through, pushing till she saw him and her heart skipped a beat.

Standing tall in all his glory, dressed in his ceremony gown, her son Henry chatted amicably with some of his fellow graduands. His uncle, smartly dressed himself, stood some steps to the side, holding his cap with great zeal as if it were a precious cargo. Henry nodded at something that was said to him and his eyes suddenly looked around to spot her in the crowd. The smile that followed was as bright as she had ever seen it.

“Mother!”

Margaret joined him as fast as her heels and pencil skirt allowed her. Short but quick steps. She pulled him into a tight hug, her boy, this son that towered over her. She stepped back to have a clear look at him, surveyed him from head to toe and back again as if he were a miracle just come to life. She had almost lost him once, almost lost him before she had the chance to hold him in her arms. But God had kept him well through all his troubles.

“Mum, are you crying?”

She had not noticed the warm liquid spilling over her cheeks. She laughed in spite of herself and wiped down her face with a trembling hand. “These are not tears of sadness, my dear.” Margaret laid a hand on her son’s cheek and watched the same boyish smile of his childhood unfold before her eyes.

“Someone else’s emotional here, eh? Well, that’s a relief!”

Jasper Tudor stepped forward and took hold of Margaret’s arm to kiss her on both cheeks. “My god! I was about to bawl my eyes out! Glad to see you’ve come to replace me.”

Henry mockingly rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him, mum. He’s been taking the piss out of me the whole morning. He’s not moved at all, this truant.”

“Nephew, nephew!” He placed a hand above his heart. “It all comes from a place of love!”

Jasper clapped her son’s shoulder twice, and they shared a sly, complicit grin. Those two had always been thick as thieves. Especially after Henry got into his teen years and started having questions that, Margaret guessed, only a father could answer. Or an uncle. Their years together in France had made them even closer.

“Margaret, we’re here!” Thomas and William joined them, both slightly short-winded in their haste. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine. We’ve got the tickets.”

Henry greeted the Stanley brothers by shaking their hands and accepted their congratulations with an easy, polite smile. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m glad you could make it.”

Thomas waved it off. “Anything for Margaret’s son. Right, Meg?” He slid an arm along her back and squeezed her shoulder before turning to his brother. “William, do you have it?”

“Do you think I would leave it behind?” He pulled a small box from his jacket’s pocket and handed it to his brother.

“It took us some time, Henry.” Thomas offered it to her son with great care. “But I think we’ve got it right.”

Henry stood a couple of seconds with the box in his hands, looking at the people gathered around him as if questioning what was inside. Her son had always been suspicious of things he didn’t know. Margaret remembered him, eleven-year-old Henry probing things with a stick whenever they went to the park. _“Just in case of snakes”,_ he would say. She remembered him, very little, about five years or so, walking on a beach in Wales to collect shells and pebbles. He would inspect every item thoroughly before dropping them inside his bucket. Later he would place them side by side along the sand, organising them by colour, shape and texture. She had known by then that her Henry would go far in life.

At that moment he laid his inquisitive eyes on his mother, but Margaret shook her head negatively. She had no clue of what that box was about. The raising of the lid didn’t give her much time to wonder. It was a two-banded ring: a slim gold band set atop sterling silver like a halo of colour. The engravings read _UNIVERSITY OF WESTMINSTER_ , his graduation year, _BA_. The inside carried his initials and a message: _Proud of you._

Margaret was stunned beyond words. Stanley had bought her son the graduation souvenir she had been thinking of gifting him all along. The ring costed no less than three hundred pounds. She had intended to buy it ― she had visited the jewellery store’s website and had looked over the various designs to choose her favourite one. But things back at the publishing house had been so chaotic those last few weeks that she had to postpone the project, not without some chagrin.

Henry tested the ring on his finger. It fitted. Henry landed his lively eyes on the Stanley brothers, his whole face lit up by the pleasant surprise. “Thank you so much for your support. I truly appreciate it.”

Her son and his most recent stepfather had never been particularly close. Margaret had taken Thomas as a husband only after Henry moved to France. But her son knew how to give thanks when the occasion called for it. He had been raised well, after all.

“Really, we can’t take the credit. It was all Margaret’s idea.”

Margaret felt her own eyes welling up again, but she reined herself in. She would not start crying in front of her husband and brother-in-law over such a simple matter as a ring, especially not at that moment when all the graduands were called into the ceremony hall. It was time for her son to go. Jasper handed him his cap before he went inside and as Henry turned to leave, he surprised his mother with a quick kiss on her forehead.

The whole ceremony would soon turn out to be the most exquisite joy. It was almost too much for Margaret’s tiny but furiously beating heart ― a soft thing that seemed to have ascended to her throat like a flying bird, menacing to escape her body entirely. She was glad she did not need to speak. She did not think she would be able to command a single coherent word out of her mouth. From her place in the first row of the rear stalls, Margaret watched it all: the academic procession, the opening ceremony speech, graduates taking the platform to be awarded with their certificates one by one.

When his department’s turn came, Henry was the first to be called into the stage. Her son was to receive a first class honours degree. He had been ranked first: he was the best, the sharpest amongst his peers. He ascended the platform, his cap gloriously resting on his head like a crown. Margaret’s whole vision suddenly blurred. Jasper, seated by her side, clutched her wrist tight. “ _It’s our boy, Margaret”_ , he whispered, his hand sending bolts of energy to her arm. When she rose her eyes to him, she was relieved to see that there were tears in his eyes as well. Her own started flowing freely by then and she squeezed back his arm. If she could thank him for everything he had done for her son at that very moment, she would.

As Henry took the stage, the ages of his youth flashed before her eyes. They seemed to come back to Margaret in waves, as though she was leafing through a family album: the first time he squeezed her finger, his first baby steps, the first time he rode a bike, his first school award. Henry playing at the Herberts, Jasper taking him to matches, Henry leaving to go to school in France. So many memories, yet so little time together. The life of a single parent had never been an easy one, especially when it came down to finding a balance between work and family. _But there’s still a lifetime ahead of us_ , Margaret consoled herself, _a lifetime to make plenty of memories yet._ A lifetime to start anew.

There was still one thing left. Once all the graduates were awarded, her son was called to the stage again. He had been chosen as the student orator for the day’s ceremony. Carrying himself very diligently, his steps sure and confident, Henry approached the mic and swept his gaze across the audience. He cleared his throat.

“Distinguished guests, graduates, ladies and gentlemen. I was chosen to say a few words.” The wandering gaze that swept the auditorium stopped at a certain point. Her son’s whole face seemed to suddenly erupt in glow. A softening of the eyes, brows, smile.

Confused, Margaret turned her head around to follow his path of vision. There, seated further back in the rear stalls, almost shyly, a girl shared his same soft smile, the same soft glowing: Edward York’s daughter, Henry’s former flatmate, Lizzie. Henry promptly resumed his speech after the short pause, but the golden-haired girl still looked on fondly.

“Oh.” The sound escaped her lips, the product of Margaret’s realisation.

“What is it, Margaret?”

She turned to face the stage again and shook her head absently, smiling to herself.

She had been watching the whole ceremony ― she knew it was a rite of passage for sure, but only now the concept did strike her in all its might, in all its clarity: her boy was a boy no longer.

 _Oh, indeed_.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Let Us Dream (Of Falcons, Lions & Ravens)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16694275) by [mihrsuri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihrsuri/pseuds/mihrsuri)




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